


60

by sneetchstar



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-22 07:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 74
Words: 225,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9592382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: Arthur is cursed. He cannot date any woman for longer than 60 days. Then he meets Guinevere... Modern Camelot AU.





	1. Day 60

Which one should I use this time? I stare into my cocoa, pondering my options. Stalling for time, I take a sip, finding it hot but lacking something.

Like her. Not that it matters now.

After two years of being punished – cursed, really – by my half-sister Morgana after breaking _her_ half-sister Morgause’s heart, I’ve become something of a professional break-up artist.

I really have no choice. 60 days and done. Because that’s how long I dated Morgause before deciding I was bored with her. That’s how long it was according to Morgana. I really didn’t keep track.

Now I do little more than keep track of the days.

_“That is all you get, Arthur,” Morgana had said, her cold green eyes boring into me. I felt a coldness spread throughout my body and I knew. I_ knew _that this was more than a threat. Morgause was dead, overdosed on pills, and Morgana had wielded her grief as vengeance on me._

60 days to date a woman. On day 60, done. The next day I have to start all over again, finding a new woman to woo, spend time with, all the time knowing I will have to split up with her.

Oh, there have been times where she has tried to break up with me, but I always manage to talk my way back in, trying to ignore the gnawing guilt.

I’ve dated tall and short, thin and thick, smart and… less than smart (those are the worst to break up with), and every color and ethnicity in the human rainbow.

I am a miserable man.

_“And if I don’t?” I had challenged, arrogant and angry._

_Morgana pointed at my trousers, at my zipper. I felt a cold, searing pain in my groin, and I swore sharply._

_“_ _Useless,” Morgana spat. “Not only that, but any chance you might have had for happiness in love? Gone. You will die miserable and alone.” She paused, and laughed a heartless laugh. “If I could find a way to take your inheritance away, I’d do that, too. But no. You can have Father’s money. Hell, you can have my half, even. You can be as rich as a king but with no one to love, what good is it?”_

I glance up again at her, a bubbly little blonde with a button nose and big blue eyes. Vivian. As pretty as a dolly and almost as smart.

“Arthur?” she asks, attempting to draw me out of my thoughts.

“Hmm?”

“My… my father said I could use the summer cottage this weekend, bring some friends out,” she says, a little hesitant. Blushing.

Here we go.

“Oh?”

“I was thinking… I was thinking you and I could go… together… alone. Molly would cover for us, Daddy would never know…”

“Vivian, I think we need to talk. About us,” I start. The classics are always in style.

“What?” she asks, her already high-pitched voice squeaking higher, her carefully-groomed brows knitting in confusion.

I have used every break-up line there is. “It’s not you, it’s me.” “I’ve met someone else.” “We’re too different.” “We’re too much alike.” And on and on. Once I even resorted to “I think I might be gay.” That one almost backfired on me when she ran into me later while I was with another girl. I just shrugged and said that I discovered I wasn’t. Thankfully it was _that_ girl’s day 60 as well, so that one sorted itself out rather neatly.

Once or twice it was difficult. Mostly I was more than ready to move on by day 30. With Vivian, it was less than two weeks in.

“I… I don’t think this is going to work. I don’t think _we_ are going to work.” May need to spell it out for her. “As a couple.”

“What? I… I was ready to let you… to take the next step with you…” she squeaks.

She’s been trying to get me into her bed for weeks, and I suddenly realize that I have never been more thankful that I _haven’t_ slept with someone. Some of them I’ve had sex with, most of them not. Especially these last six months.

It’s hard to feel sexually attracted to someone when one is secretly miserable all the time.

“I know, that’s why I needed to say this now,” I sigh. “Before we did it. I’m not happy, Viv.”

“Don’t call me ‘Viv.’” She pouts at me and pokes her finger in the foam of her latte. Then she sticks her finger in her mouth, sucking the foam off. Is she seriously trying to seduce me now?

I sigh, but don’t apologize. “Look, I need to go. You’re a nice girl, and you need someone who can make you happy. I don’t think I’m that person,” I say, standing now.

“You’re leaving?” she sniffles.

God help me.

“Yes, what do you think I was just saying? I’m done here; _we’re_ done. Sorry.” I turn on my heel and walk out the door, not looking back, my barely-touched cocoa cooling on the table.

I have to find a way out of this curse before it kills me.


	2. Day 1

So Day One again. Vivian tried calling me last night. Six times. The sixth time I finally answered and told her to piss off. Harsh, but effective.

I debate my options for the day. It’s a Sunday, which is good. It’s always helpful to have Day One on a weekend. More birds about for the hunting. I do try and stay positive about this whole thing. At least for Day One. No woman wants to talk to a bloke who looks like his soul is torn into shreds.

The rule for Day One is this: I have to get a phone number that I intend to call on Day Two. One time I collected a few numbers, just to give myself options, but that turned out badly. I honestly don’t know what would happen with this bloody curse if I dated two women at once. I very much doubt that I’d get to take the following 60 days off. However, I _am_ fairly certain that I do know what would happen with the two women involved if I dated two women at once, though, so I stay well clear of that.

Places to pick up women: Pubs, obviously. Parks (watch out for women with children, though. Don’t want to go there, because it usually ends up hurting the child, and that’s not cricket). Shopping centers. Beaches, weather permitting.

I like beaches. So much more to see. However, it’s early spring, so probably not the beach. Maybe I’ll take a jog through the park later.

Not the office. Most definitely not. Father would have my head (or something else) mounted on his wall like a hunting trophy.

But first: shopping. I’m out of milk, and that won’t do. Also bread. And oatmeal. And… nearly everything else. So, the market.

The market occasionally turns up gold, but there are a lot of marrieds there, and I’ve learned to not only look for the ring, but to also look for the _dent_ left by a ring. Because you don’t know the reason why the ring has recently been removed. And it doesn’t really matter _what_ the reason is. Just stay away. Either she’s still married or she’s so recently single that she’s likely one giant exposed nerve.

I stroll the aisles with my trolley, grabbing my usual items almost automatically. I really should make a list, but I generally can’t be buggered.

Of course, sometimes that means I have to return to the market the next day.

I am perusing the just-add-ingredient boxed dinners when something catches the edge of my vision. I turn and see a young woman, quite fit but quite petite, staring up at something on the top shelf over by the Asian food section. I can’t see her face, but the back view is not disappointing in the slightest.

She’s short, but her legs are long, covered in a pair of skinny jeans that hug her backside quite nicely. She’s wearing flip-flops with some sort of multicolored design on the straps, and a fitted purple t-shirt. Her dark, curly hair is in a ponytail, and I would guess it would fall just past her shoulders if it were loose. I notice a stray curl brushing the side of her neck, and it distracts me a moment while I just watch this ebony tendril brush against her light brown skin.

She puts one hand on her hip, and her fingers are long and tapered, with short nails and no polish. I watch them as they drum against her hip.

Obviously she can’t reach something.

Oh, but please do try.

Then I realize I’m standing and staring like a creeper, so I blink myself out of it and look around. No one else is in this end of the aisle. Then she moves, and she has my complete attention once again. She’s reaching. It’s worth watching. I leave my trolley and silently step closer.

She strains up on her little painted purple toes, reaching for a packet of rice noodles. I wouldn’t even know what to do with uncooked rice noodles.

Suddenly I’m glad I showered before leaving the house. I step up behind her and stand just close enough to be close but not creepy.

“Allow me,” I say, keeping my voice soft, reaching the packet quite easily for her, holding it for her to take.

“Thank you,” she says, looking up at me, closing her fingers around the noodles.

I look down at her and for a moment, all I see are honey brown eyes. I don’t think I’ve seen eyes quite this shade before.

Smile, dummy.

“You’re welcome.” Say something clever. “Next time, just scale the shelves. That would teach them to not stack things so high.”

She laughs, and I relax. Then I take a split second to inspect the rest of her face. Apart from the intriguing eyes, which are not only uniquely colored but also uniquely shaped, she has a straight nose dotted with little freckles and nicely full lips set above a rather square jaw.

Not classically beautiful by any means, but she definitely has a quality. Vivian was a Barbie Doll. I think this girl is more a Rubik’s Cube. Something you can’t leave alone because it intrigues you so.

I’m not saying she’s a puzzle to be solved; I know nothing about this girl apart from she’s too short to reach the top shelf and she likes rice noodles.

“Um…” she says, looking down and then back up, and I realize that I haven’t released the noodles.

“Oh, sorry,” I chuckle, loosing my grasp.

“Thank you,” she says again, her voice a whisper.

She likes me. Well, likes what she sees, anyway. I know it sounds smug, but I’ve learned to recognize the signs. I am a professional.

“You are most welcome,” I say, still keeping my voice low and soft, my gentle-but-sexy timbre.

Then I step back and let her walk away.

But I’m not done with my little Rubik’s Cube just yet. I’ve put her on the side table, but I’ll be back. I have found my target. Day One is on.

I need to get her phone number.

I return to my trolley and begin stalking this poor girl through the market. I still shop, but she’s always in the corner of my vision.

Then I “accidentally” bump her trolley with mine in the frozen section.

“Oh, sorry… oh!” I chuckle when I “notice” that it’s her.

“Hi, again,” she chuckles, tucking another loose curl behind her ear, looking away, and I notice a slight pink tinge rise in her cheeks. She so likes me.

“Can I reach anything down for you while I’m here?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. She laughs again. I like her laugh. “No, I’m good, thanks,” she says. Then she looks down at her hands on the trolley handle – no wedding ring, but a very interesting silver filigree ring, large and curlicued, on her right middle finger – and bites her lower lip.

Then I let her walk away again.

She’s really very cute. I grab a pint of cherry chocolate chip ice cream, count to five, and follow.

She’s heading to the checkout lanes. Timing is everything here. I linger near the crisps for a moment, watching her steer into lane four. I have to get in lane four behind her, so I go.

Luckily it is still the shortest queue, so I casually fall in behind her and start perusing the tabloids. Not interested, obviously, but I can’t look at her. She has to notice me this time.

Ooo, beef jerky. I need some of this for snacking at work. I reach down and grab a packet of teriyaki flavor, my favorite, and toss it noisily into my trolley.

Just because she has to notice me doesn’t mean I can’t stack the deck.

“Are you following me?” she asks suddenly. She has her head cocked at an angle and her hand on her hip again. Cheeky little thing. And so cute.

“Oh, my God,” I laugh, endeavoring to appear a bit embarrassed. She laughs, too, and resumes loading her shopping onto the conveyor.

I start to reach for the plastic divider rod at the same time she does, and our hands touch, just briefly. I swear this was not on purpose. A small, accidental touch; a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it brush of fingertips, and she jerks her hand away as if she has touched a hot stove.

“Oh! Sorry…” she says, blushing that adorable dark pink again.

“No problem,” I say, setting the divider on the belt and begin loading my groceries on. I hope I got everything I need. I have a feeling I’ve picked up a few things I don’t need as well. Like this box of macaroni and cheese with cartoon-shaped noodles from some bizarre children’s show. I sigh and set the box aside. I am not eating noodles shaped like ponies. I am a man.

She pays for her shopping and I wait impatiently while my purchases are rung. I _must_ catch her in the parking lot or I’m going to have to start all over with some other bird.

And this girl really intrigues me.

I pay and scurry into the lot, my eyes searching for her purple shirt. Momentarily I curse her shortness, even though that was the very thing that brought her to my attention.

There she is. She’s just taking her empty trolley to the trolley return rack in the lot. Time to show my hand.

“Oi! Miss!” I call, heading her way, smiling as she very carefully pushes her trolley in, sliding it neatly in place. Usually I just give it a shove from six feet away and hope it gets there.

She turns. “Oh. Hi…” Strangely, she doesn’t look surprised.

She waits for me, which is a good sign. Not as good as if she were to walk to meet… wait, she’s walking.

“Um, hi. So, I have to confess, I _was_ kind of following you. Sort of,” I admit.

“I know,” she says, pursing her lips to stop herself from smiling.

“You do?” She does?

“You’re not as subtle as you think,” she says, laughing now.

“Apparently not. So I’ll try for direct, then. I’m Arthur, and I’d really like your phone number.” I hold out my hand.

“Gwen,” she says, placing her cool, slender hand in mine. It feels very small in mine, but she has a strong grip and I think I feel a couple small calluses. She must do some sort of work that involves her hands. Or perhaps a hobby.

I wonder what?

Am I seriously interested in what she does? That hasn’t happened in a while.

“Gwen,” I repeat, “would it be all right if I called you sometime?”

She pauses, watching me silently _just_ long enough to make me nervous. I think she’s doing it on purpose.

“Yeah, all right,” she says, holding her hand out, palm up. Oh, right. My phone.

I pull my mobile out of my pocket and hand it to her.

Mission accomplished. For today, anyway.

I walk to my car, and I realize that I feel happy for the first time in months. This girl is going to be fun.

Then I remember that this girl is also only going to be temporary, and my heart sinks again.

Bloody hell.


	3. Day 2

Distracted today. By her. Gwen. I'm pretty sure I dreamt of her last night. It was quite a good dream. I haven’t had one like… _that_ in some time.

At least my father has left me alone most of the day, which is good. But I still didn’t get as far on my plans for the new recreation center in the lower town. They stare accusingly up at me from my drafting table; my pencils in a row, waiting for their orders like tiny knights.

Her smile drifts into my memory and I smile. Then I frown.

Only Day Two and I’m already worrying about Day 60. I think this one may be more difficult than Elena was.

She was difficult to break up with. Not like how Vivian was difficult, but I didn’t actually want to break up with her. She was fun, vibrant, and smart. Her father was even a decent chap. She was a horse breeder, which was interesting. I could have continued dating her.

Haven’t thought of her in months, though. I think I heard from my father that she’d moved away. Took a job at a horse racing track somewhere, I guess.

I hope she’s happy.

But Gwen is different, even from Elena. There is something… refreshing about her. When I talked to her I could tell that she wasn’t putting on airs or trying to impress me in any way. And that is what impresses me. Usually I just smile at a bird and she melts. Gwen fluttered, but she didn’t melt.

This is going to be difficult.

“Arthur?”

I look up. “Father?”

“It’s past five o’clock. Are you staying late?”

“Is it already? I guess I lost track of time,” I say. Been busy daydreaming about the newest woman whose heart I’ll have to break.

“Join me for dinner?”

Ugh. “Rain check,” I say. “Feeling a little out of sorts.”

“You broke up with Vivian, didn’t you?” he asks, but it’s not really a question.

I nod.

“Arthur, when are you going to settle down, stop with this endless string of women?”

When your daughter frees me from this curse. “I don’t know, Father. I’m not going to just… settle,” I say with a shrug.

“Well, I liked Vivian. Pity you couldn’t make a go of it.”

He has no clue how tiresome that girl is. He’s chums with her father, though, so he was supportive of my dating her. “She’s got no brains at all,” I tell him, brushing past him as I walk out of my office.

I’m going home, make myself a cup-o-noodles, and then I’m going to call Gwen. Not because I have to, but because I want to.

And because I have to.

 

xXx

 

It’s nearly half seven, so I pick up my mobile and scroll to her number. As I listen to it ringing, a brief moment of panic seizes me as I wonder if she gave the correct number.

“Hello?” It’s the correct number. I recognize her soft, slightly smoky voice immediately.

“Hello, Gwen? This is Arthur. We met yesterday, at—”

“Yes, my supermarket stalker, hello,” she says brightly. The smile in her voice makes me smile. “Calling the very next day, that’s not usual behavior for a man,” she teases.

“You’re lucky I didn’t call you last night,” I tease back. I did consider it.

“And why does that make me lucky, exactly?” she asks.

“Um,” I hedge, scrambling for an answer. This girl is sharp. Quite a change from Vivian. I’d call her and all I would have to do is say “mm-hmm” once in a while and she’d be happy as a clam.

Then she laughs, and I give up on answering. She’s letting me off the hook.

“How were your noodles?” I ask.

“Noodles?”

“The rice noodles I retrieved from the top shelf for you. Were they good?”

“I haven’t eaten them yet, actually.”

“Oh. So what do you do with those, anyway? I mean, to prepare them. I’ve eaten them, but in their raw form, well, they kind of look like plastic.”

She laughs again. “Yes, they do, a bit. They’re actually easier to cook than regular noodles. Even a simple man such as yourself could do it, I’d wager.”

Teasing me again. I love it, I realize. Vivian was crap at banter. Probably because she didn’t understand most of my jokes. “Oh? You think so? Because I’m still kind of working on getting my thumbs to, you know, _oppose_.” She laughs again, so I keep going. “I’m actually a little worn out from just trying to operate my mobile so I could phone you. What with only being able to mash the keypad with my fist and all.”

“Do you fling your poo at perceived threats?” she asks, still laughing. Poo jokes already? I am so loving this.

I laugh. “Only sometimes. But you are lucky that I just didn’t club you and drag you off to my cave by your hair yesterday.”

“Once again, _why_ does that make me lucky?”

Wow. Um. Yes. I guess she’s interested.

“Um,” is all I can manage again. She laughs again. I think she enjoys rendering me speechless.

“So what are you up to this evening, good sir?” she asks, changing gears again.

“Well, I worked today, which was _meh_ , and then I came home, had a gourmet meal of chicken flavored cup-o-noodles, and then I rang you up,” I say, settling back on my couch.

“Cup-o-noodles, really, Arthur? If you can do that, you can definitely cook rice noodles.”

“Are you a good cook? Perhaps you could teach me to cook sometime,” I say. Bait the line, and throw it out there.

“Perhaps,” she says, evasive but a little flirty. A nibble. “Work not great today, though? Don’t you like your job?”

“I do, actually. I was just distracted today, that’s all.”

“Oh? By what?”

“You. I was distracted thinking about meeting you yesterday,” I say quietly.

“You were not,” she says, trying to be dismissive, but I can tell she’s smiling and likely blushing.

“I was. Got precious little done.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m an architect at Pendragon, Inc.”

“Ooo, posh,” she says. “I’ve heard that Uther Pendragon is a bit of a tyrant. Is he difficult to work for?”

Oh, darling, if you only knew. Well, you’re about to learn. “He is a bit of a tyrant, yes. He’s also my father.”

“Oh, my goodness, I—”

“ _And_ he is a right pain in the arse to work for,” I finish, ignoring her apology.

“Oh. But surely, being his son…?”

“That just means he’s extra hard on me because he expects more. Most of the time I do fine, though. Thankfully, I’m actually pretty good at my job. Despite the lack of opposable thumbs, of course.”

She laughs again. “Have you done anything I might have seen?”

“Well, the firm designed the rebuild of Camelot General after it burned down in that stupid wyvern attack a few years ago,” I say. “I did the entrance to the Emergency Ward.”

“Wow,” she says. She sounds genuinely impressed.

“And now I’m working on designs for a new recreation center in the lower town. You know, where they knocked down that strip mall?”

“Oh, is that what’s going there?” she asks.

“Mm-hmm.” This girl is very easy to talk to. “So, Miss Gwen, what is it that you do with your days?”

“I am an independent business owner,” she says proudly.

“Oh, really? What kind of business?”

“I design and make jewelry. I have my own shop and everything.”

“That’s really cool,” I say. Because it is. Then I remember her ring. “I saw that ring you had on yesterday. Did you make that?”

“Yes, I made it.”

“It was beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Thank you. I’m surprised you noticed it,” she says. I imagine she’s wearing it now, and is currently looking down at it on her hand, watching how the silver glints against her brown skin.

“To tell you the truth, when I meet an attractive woman, one of the first things I look at are her hands.”

“Really? Why?”

“To check for signs of a wedding ring, obviously,” I say, grinning into the phone.

She laughs. “Of course.”

“So what’s your shop?”

“Guinevere’s Goldwork, on Seventh.”

“Guinevere? Is Gwen short for Guinevere?” I ask. That’s a very pretty name.

“Yes, but no one calls me Guinevere.”

“Why not? It’s beautiful. Guinevere,” I say again. I like saying it. I can almost taste it. Guinevere.

She’s quiet for a moment. “Well, if people would say it like _that,_ maybe I wouldn’t mind,” she admits softly. Her voice is almost breathy.

I find myself realizing that I don’t _want_ other people calling her Guinevere like that, if that’s how she reacts.

Bloody hell, this is going to be a hard one.

We talk for a long time, conversation flowing easily. It doesn’t feel like we just met for a few moments yesterday. She tells me about Sefa, her assistant, who is a sweet Druid girl. I tell her about my mate Leon, who also works for my father. We’ve known each other since we were boys. She hints at setting him up with Sefa, and I hesitate.

“What? Is he a troll?” she asks. “Because I assure you, Sefa is very pretty. She’s a bit shy, but sweet.”

“I’m sure she is, but Leon prefers his women to be men,” I say, chuckling.

“Oh! Well, then, never mind…” she trails off, laughing again.

I love making her laugh, just so I can hear her laugh. I love that she teases me whenever she possibly can. I love how forward and confident she is. I love how smart she is. And not just smart, but clever as well.

When we finally ring off, it’s nearly ten. I don’t remember the last time I talked on the phone to anyone for this long, let alone a girl. I also don’t remember the last time I had such a fun conversation.

I look at my mobile. The battery is at 25%. I toss it lightly on the coffee table and lean back, throwing my arm over my eyes, pressing down until I see red starbursts against the blackness, almost as though I’m trying to squeeze my own head until it pops.

I’m scared.


	4. Day 3

Just after one, my mobile rings. I’m at lunch with Leon, discussing the upcoming jousting tournament, jokingly laughing over how much different the sport would be if they still used _real_ lances instead of those padded polystyrene monstrosities, aiming at shields with sensors to score points.

“If they switch from horses to motorbikes, I’m done,” I say as I pull my phone out to see who’s calling me. My heart stops beating. “Sorry, mate, I gotta take this.”

“No problem,” he allows, and I raise my eyebrows at him as he checks out our waiter’s backside. Again.

“Guinevere, this is a pleasant surprise,” I answer, a smile creeping across my face, almost against my will.

“I’m not interrupting you, am I?” she asks.

“Just having lunch,” I say.

“All alone?”

“With Leon. Say hi, Leon,” I say, holding the phone out.

Predictably, he complies exactly as instructed. “Hi, Leon,” he says loudly. I roll my eyes at him but when I return my phone to my ear, she is laughing.

“I won’t keep you, then. I was just calling to see if you were available… for a date,” she says, her voice losing its confidence towards the end.

“Aw, you beat me to it,” I say, feigning disappointment. “Yes, of course I am. When did you have in mind?”

“Is tomorrow too short notice?”

Whoa, fast mover. “Um, no. Tomorrow’s fine,” I say, trying not to sound surprised or perplexed. I don’t think I succeed.

“Sorry, I’m not a stalker or anything—”

“No, that’s me, remember?” I interrupt.

She laughs. “It’s just… I’d like to see you again. In person. I enjoyed our talk last night, but I’d like to see your face again,” she says quietly. It makes me smile, and I glance up to see Leon regarding me suspiciously.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Mini golf.”

I laugh, surprised at her interesting suggestion. “That’s brilliant. I love it.”

“Pick me up at my shop at 7:30,” she says.

“At your shop? You don’t want me to know where you live?”

“I hardly know you,” she says coyly. She does have a point. “But I live above my shop.”

“Ah. 7:30 tomorrow, then.”

“See you then, Arthur,” she says.

“Looking forward to it, Guinevere,” I say, and I swear I hear her breath catch.

Leon is staring at me. “Didn’t you _just_ break up with Vivian on Saturday?” he asks. He doesn’t know about my curse. No one does. Only Morgana and me. She’s never said that I couldn’t tell anyone, but frankly, I’m embarrassed enough about the whole thing that I can’t bring myself to even tell my closest friend.

“And today is Tuesday,” I shrug.

“And you met this… Guinevere… when, exactly?”

“Sunday,” I mutter.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” he says, leaning forward, angling his ear towards me. I know he heard me.

“ _Sunday,_ ” I say, over-enunciating the word.

“Mate, you gotta stop this… chain-dating. It’s like you’re afraid of commitment but you’re afraid to be alone. It’s not healthy.”

No, what’s not healthy is what will happen to me if I stop. “I’m fine,” I say. “Really.”

“I don’t believe you,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me. “There’s something you’re not telling me, but I’m not going to press. You’ll tell me in your own time.”

Thankfully, our waiter comes to the table to give us our bill. He sets it near Leon, winks at him, tosses his dark shiny hair, and walks away.

Even I have to admit he’s a ridiculously handsome bastard.

Leon picks up the bill and smiles. There’s another slip of paper beneath it, which he flashes at me, grinning.

_Gwaine. 975-394-447. After 5 p.m._

“How the hell did he know that you’re gay? Did I not see the secret handshake or something?” I ask. I’m genuinely curious.

Leon laughs. “Jealous?”

“Certainly not, even though I am _much_ better looking than you are,” I say. He throws his napkin at my head. I catch it easily and throw it back at him.

We leave our money tucked under the bill, along with Leon’s number and a generous tip (he really was an exemplary waiter).

“While you were busy on the phone, he totally caught me checking him out,” Leon confesses outside.

At least someone has a chance for happiness.


	5. Day 4

Huh. I must have driven past this place a thousand times and I’ve never given it a single glance. Yet here I sit, at 7:25, outside Guinevere’s jewelry shop.

It’s a nice little storefront. Tidy. Looks like it’s in a safe area, too, so she shouldn’t have to worry about bandits.

My eyes lift to the windows above, and I see a shadow pass across one of the windows. She must be up there, getting ready. I peer at the placard inside the door. She closes at five. Saturdays she’s only open in the morning, and Sundays she’s closed. I wouldn’t be open on Saturdays at all if it was my business, but I can see how that would be profitable for her.

Should I honk? No, that’s terribly rude. I switch off the car and walk to the door. There are two buttons. I look at my watch. 7:28. I press the upper button.

“Be right down,” her voice comes out of a little speaker box to my right. I step back and wait, and a minute later, she comes bounding out the door.

She looks really cute, just like I remember. She’s wearing jeans again, but not the skinny ones from Sunday. These are wider in the leg and I notice she’s wearing some brown boots under them. She’s got on a pale yellow v-neck t-shirt and has a grey hooded sweatshirt slung over her arm.

“Hello,” she says, smiling at me. Her hair is back in one of those braids that starts up high on her head and goes down from there. I’m sure it has a name; I just don’t know what it is.

I wonder what her hair looks like unbound. I imagine a riot of dark curls framing her face, calling out for my fingers to run through them.

“Hi,” I say, smiling back at her. “You look very nice.”

“Thank you,” she says. I wait for the follow up of _oh, this is old thing_ or _I look a mess_ or one of those things that women say when they really are just fishing for more compliments.

“You look pretty good, yourself,” she says instead, taking me pleasantly by surprise.

“Thank you. Your chariot, my lady,” I say, holding the car door open for her. She grins and climbs in.

I drive the short distance to Citadel Fun Centre, where there is mini golf, go-karts, and an arcade all for the offering.

I make sure to get to the window first and pay for our mini golf. Somehow I know she’s going to protest, and I am not disappointed.

“Hey, now! I asked you out, this should be on me,” she huffs, her hands on her hips.

“Too late,” I shrug. She scowls. Bloody hell, it’s cute. “Sorry. Call me a caveman again if you like, but it wouldn’t feel right.”

“Fine. But I want ice cream after, and you’re having some, too, and _I’m_ buying it.”

“Fair enough,” I say. “Grab a ball.”

She snorts a laugh and chooses a lavender golf ball from the basket. I choose red, and then we pick out our clubs from a rack of identical low-quality putters.

“I should warn you, I’m total crap at this,” I say, choosing a club that doesn’t look too heavily abused.

She laughs. “Oh, good. If you’re aware of it, then it shouldn’t sting too much when I wipe the floor with you,” she teases, handing me her club and ball so she can tie her hoodie around her waist.

By the time we get to the first hole, she’s untied her hoodie and put it on, zipping it halfway. The sun has sunk below the treeline and the air has cooled significantly.

“Ladies first,” I offer, my arm outstretched.

She drops her ball, steadying it with her foot. As she positions herself over the ball, her breasts are pressed together by her arms, and they taunt me from the vee in the neck of her t-shirt. My eyes immediately decide to glue themselves there.

“Enjoying the view?”

Busted.

“Sorry,” I grin sheepishly. “But they’re right _there,_ you know.”

She just smirks at me and returns to what she was doing.

I think she wore that kind of shirt on purpose.

She hits the ball, and it rolls smoothly along the ramp, across the drawbridge and through the opening in the bottom of the cheap wooden castle, popping out the other side, coasting to a stop three inches from the hole.

I’m in trouble. She peers around the castle to see where she’s landed, gives me a smug little smile, and steps aside so that I can hit.

I wasn’t lying when I told her that I was crap at this. My ball misses the drawbridge, bounces off the side of the castle, and returns to me.

“If it comes back, it doesn’t count, right?” I ask, endeavoring to look pitiful.

“Keep dreaming, Pendragon. That’s one.”

This is going to be a long night, but I think I’m going to enjoy it anyway.

I ask her at one point if she was ever a pro golfer. She just laughed, but didn’t give me a direct answer. She winds up crushing me, getting par or under on each hole, while I steadily rack up eights and nines, and, in one gloriously spectacular hole involving a bloody dragon that moves, a thirteen.

Then she gets a hole-in-one on the last hole and launches into a celebratory dance that involves shaking her curvy little backside around. A lot.

It’s not even said curvy little backside that makes my cock suddenly twitch with interest, awoken from its hibernation like a bear in March, but it’s more her joyful attitude, the abandon with which she celebrates her victory (an easy one, at that) and her hole-in-one. The way she seems to not care at all that half the people around us are staring at her.

What can I do but laugh? She’s just… wonderful.

And I’m a gigantic twat. She deserves much better than me. Unfortunately, I’m well in now and there’s no turning back.

“Aw, don’t pout,” she says, walking over to me. She misinterprets my genuine misery for male pride. I let her think that’s the reason.

She puts her hand on my chest, and while her hand is cool, it feels warm to me. “Well done, beating someone who’s done this a grand total of one time apart from now,” I say, smiling at her now.

“Sure, just take all the fun out of it,” she says, laughing. “Next time we do this, I’ll have to show you what you’re doing wrong.” She saunters away, heading back to return her ball and club.

Next time? “Wait, you could have helped me and you didn’t?” I call after her, walking now. I hear her laughter again and I can’t help but smile. “That’s not fair!”

“Ice cream,” she says after we return our equipment, grabbing my hand and pulling me to the snack bar.

She has a vanilla cone dipped in chocolate, and I have a hot fudge sundae. At first I try to order a popsicle, but she completely called me out on ordering the least expensive thing and made me choose what I really wanted.

We find a picnic table and sit facing each other, eating ice cream and talking.

“I was going to invite you to dinner originally,” she tells me.

“Oh?” I am slightly distracted watching her eat ice cream. I never noticed how sensual it could be. There’s quite a lot of tongue involved.

“Yes. At first I thought I might cook you dinner, you know, use those rice noodles I bought and make us a nice Pad Thai. But then I thought, wait, I hardly know this man. He might be shady. Do I really want to be alone with him in my home just yet?”

“I can respect that,” I say.

“You’re not insulted?”

“Well, no. You don’t know if I’m going to, I don’t know, murder you and hack you into tiny bits or something,” I shrug. “I’m not, obviously, but…”

“Well, that’s certainly reassuring. Because if there’s one thing I know about murderers, it’s that they always make sure to give you advance warning. So you can pencil it into your diary and all,” she says, laughing. She crunches into the cone now. “Do you like Thai food?”

“Yes, I do. Though I’ve only ever had it in restaurants,” I say. My sundae is gone, and I lick an errant spot of chocolate from my finger. I notice she watches me do this with unveiled interest.

“You have very nice hands,” she says quietly. “Large and square, but graceful.”

I look at my hands. Never gave them much thought.

“Sorry,” she apologizes, embarrassed now. “I’m an artist; I notice details.”

“Don’t apologize,” I say. “And thank you. Sorry, you just caught me off guard there.”

“I do that a lot to you, don’t I?” she asks, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

“Yes, but I kind of like it. Keeps me on my toes.” I smile at her, resting my chin on my hand.

She takes my hand and turns it to look at my watch. “Should we do the go-karts? There’s still time…”

I look over towards the track. There’s a long line. I’d love to drive the go-karts, but I need to pace myself. “Long line. Perhaps another time?”

“Okay,” she says. I can see she’s a little disappointed, but is trying to hide it.

“Rain check. I promise,” I say, reaching the short distance to where her hand is still resting. I just touch her fingers with mine, and I think I see her eyelids flutter.

Little things go a long way, I’ve learned.

“We both have to work tomorrow,” she says quietly.

“Yes, unfortunately. But you were the one who asked me out on a date on a Wednesday,” I say, standing. I grab the napkins and things from the table and toss them in the bin. “Shall we?”

“Sure,” she says. When she nears me, I place my hand softly on the small of her back as we walk back to my car.

I take her back to her apartment, even going around the car to open her door for her.

“Would you like to come up?” she asks shyly.

“So, I’m not a serial killer?” I ask.

“I’m willing to take that risk,” she says, tucking a curl that has escaped from its braid behind her ear.

“We’ve only had one date, Guinevere,” I say, saying no without saying no.

“Oh. Right,” she says.

“I had a really good time. Even though you trounced me,” I smile at her. I need her to know that I’m not turning her down because I don’t like her.

Truth is, I like her very much.

“I had a really good time, too,” she says. She lifts her face to me, her lips slightly parted, asking me for a kiss.

I lean down. She closes her eyes, and I move slightly, kissing her left cheek softly, my thumb brushing the right.

The first thing I notice is that she smells absolutely wonderful. I don’t even know what it is or what to compare it to, but I have to stop myself from nuzzling her, from reaching up and pulling the elastic holding her braid and burying my nose in her curls.

I straighten up, steeling myself as she opens her lovely brown eyes, and the second thing I notice is my lips are tingling a bit.

That’s never happened before.

“Goodnight, Guinevere,” I say, my voice low and soft. “Sleep well.”

“Goodnight,” she whispers, turning to unlock her door. She gives me one last look over her shoulder – checking to make sure I really don’t want to come up – and disappears inside.

Problem is, I really _do_ want to go up. But I know if I went up, I’d wind up staying the night. And that is not how I do things. I have to be careful.

I’ve learned how to pace myself. I’ve become King of the Slow Movers. Sometimes it backfires, but most of the time it works quite effectively. Give her just enough so she knows I’m interested, but not so much that she is expecting me to propose by day 45.

It’s just never been this difficult before.


	6. Day 5

10:45, my mobile rings. I look down at it, and see that it’s Guinevere. I really should take a picture of her for my caller ID.

I don’t usually do that. Why do I want to with her?

“Good morning, Guinevere,” I answer smoothly.

“Thank you for the flowers,” she says. I can hear the smile in her voice. “How did you know I liked Gerbera daisies?”

“I didn’t. I guess I just got lucky,” I say. Thank you, Hunith at Forget-Me-Not Floral. I had asked for something simple, something that says “I had a great time and would like to see you again” without saying “I want inside your trousers immediately” or “I am madly in love with you.”

Of course that’s not exactly how I described it to Hunith. She’s a sweet, middle-aged lady who has saved my butt several times. I think she even once mentioned that I helped put her son through his last year at medical school. Likely.

“Well, I love them, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. I just… felt a little bad because you seemed a bit disappointed last night, and I didn’t want you to think that I don’t like you or don’t want to see you again. Because I do.”

“I got that from the message on the card, thanks,” she says softly. I can hear the chime of the door. A customer must have walked in.

I had Hunith put “Had a great time. Looking forward to seeing you again. Yours, Arthur” on the card.

“I like to take things slow,” I explain quietly. She doesn’t need to know why.

“I got that, yes. Are you worth the wait, I wonder?”

What? Did she really just ask me that? I swallow. “I certainly hope so,” I say. My voice actually cracks a little. Shit, I’m suddenly 15 years old. I clear my throat. “And I have a feeling that you definitely are,” I add, and immediately wish I could swallow the words back up.

Stop flirting. It’s dangerous.

“You’ll just have to wait and see, Mr. Slow Mover,” she teases. I hear a high, soft feminine voice call to her. That must be Sefa. “Be right there,” she says to the voice. “I have to go.”

“Yes, I hear that. Have a good day,” I say.

“Thank you again for the flowers. I love them,” she says again.

“I’m glad,” I say. I swear I can hear her smile just before she disconnects.

Half an hour later, she texts me a photo of the flowers I sent her with another thank you. Pink and orange daisies with some green stuff in a yellow glass vase. Cheerful and cute. Just like her.


	7. Day 6

I step back from my drafting table and ponder my drawing. I think I’m done. It’s two p.m. on a Friday and I’ve just finished my design for the recreation center.

So tempting to be done for the day. I set my pencil down and lean back, stretching my back.

I still have to make the model, but there’s no way I’m starting that today. My phone blips, a notification that it’s my turn in one of my games.

I look over at my phone. I haven’t heard from Guinevere today. I need to make some sort of contact each day.

I lean over and grab it, deciding to text her.

_A: Guess what?_

I set the phone down, not knowing when she’ll reply. She might be busy. She might be at an appointment or something. I have no idea what she’s doing right now.

I find myself wishing that I knew. I stare into space, and the memory of her little bum-shaking celebratory dance floats through my brain, and a smile crosses my face. Then my phone buzzes.

_G: What?_

_A: I finished my design for the rec center._

_G: Congrats!_

_A: Are you busy? Thinking of skiving off early now that I’ve finished this part._

_G: Busier than a dragon with two piles of gold_

I laugh. She’s clever. I like that.

_A: Maybe I’ll hang about here and pantomime working, then._

_G: I’m free for dinner. Not cooking for you yet, though._

I frown. I actually have to go to my father’s tonight for dinner. I do try not to think about this day. I don’t know why he always wants me to come over. Well, I do, actually, but it doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable.

_A: I am expected at Father’s tonight for dinner, sadly._

I get no immediate reply. She did say she was busy. I’m sure that’s the reason.

Her reply comes five minutes later.

_G: Okay._

_G: Sorry about the wait. Had something that needed my undivided attention for a few._

_A: That’s okay._

_G: Dinner with Daddy, then?_

_A: Hurrah. :|_

_G: No fun, hey?_

_A: Not really._

I pause, trying to decide if I should tell her why I’m expected. What the hell.

_A: It’s the anniversary of my mother’s death, actually. He always wants me to come over on this date._

_G: So sorry for you. Is it very difficult?_

_A: More uncomfortable. I think it’s a strange occasion to mark._

_G: Usually I just go to the cemetery. My parents are both dead. I bring them flowers and talk to them a little._

This is news. I had no idea. She knew who my father was, so she probably knew that my mother was dead. It’s almost common knowledge in Camelot.

_A: I’m sorry, I had no idea._

_G: It’s okay. You would have no way of knowing._

_G: I had a brother, too. He died in the wyvern attack. Same one that demolished the hospital._

My stomach drops. I distinctly remember referring to that event as the “stupid wyvern attack” on Sunday. Her brother was killed in that attack, and there I was being flippant about it.

_A: I’m really sorry._

_G: It was a stupid wyvern attack, indeed._

I stare at the screen. She remembered what I said. She’s not offended. Of course, she knows I didn’t know, and she didn’t mention it at the time.

_A: I feel like a twat for saying that now._

_G: Don’t. You were correct. And again, you didn’t know._

_A: You are too kind._

_G: No, I’m not._

_A: Are too._

_G: Am not._

_A: Are too._

I’m sitting at my desk, laughing like an idiot. My phone goes quiet again. She must be busy again.

_G: Am not._

This comes in a few minutes later, and I start laughing again. I’ll let her have the last word.

_A: Are you busy tomorrow night?_

_G: I have nothing planned at the moment._

_A: Interested at all in seeing Thunderhawk?_

_G: That’s the new Sebastian Bartlett movie, right?_

_A: Yes. If you’d rather something else, that’s fine, too._

_G: No, I’d like to see Thunderhawk. The new guy they have playing Bartlett is hot._

I snort. Fast-paced spy movie with amazing cars and cool gadgets and all she can say is “the new guy is hot.”

At least she’s not going to drag me to a chick flick. I’ve seen far too many of those. I’ve got so much experience with romantic comedies that I can usually predict the ending before the opening credits finish.

_A: I’ll check the showtimes and get back to you._

_G: Okay._

_G: Can I see your design? Take a pic and send it to me?_

I can do that. I fire up the camera and take a picture of the color drawing, the one I just finished, showing the front elevation of the building, and send it.

_G: That is really cool! I like the columns. They anchor the whole thing._

I am impressed. The columns are the key to the entire design, and she got that right away. Of course, she is a designer as well, just on a much smaller scale.

_A: Thank you. I wanted the columns, so I did those first and created the design around them._

_G: Are you going to do one of those little models, too?_

_A: That’s my next project. Will tackle that starting Monday._

_G: Can’t wait to see it. :)_

_A: I think that can be arranged._

_G: Promise?_

_A: Promise. I’ll let you get back to your two piles of gold now._

_G: Down to one and a half, now._

_A: See you tomorrow._

_G: Can’t wait._

I set my phone down and walk to the window, looking down at the street below. It occurs to me that with no family, at least I don’t have to worry about an irate brother or father wanting to pound me once I break her heart. It’s happened once or twice.

I hate it when thoughts like that pop into my head.


	8. Day 7

“I actually prefer action movies,” she tells me in the queue for tickets. “Those chick-flick romantic comedies are so formulaic and predictable.”

I stare for a moment. I cannot believe my luck. “You’re serious?”

She nods, rolling her eyes. “Boy meets Girl, and they hate each other at first. Then they’re somehow thrown together and grudgingly learn to like each other, which turns to lust, then love. Or they meet and like each other immediately but can’t be together. Then in either scenario, boy buggers something up or girl does something idiotic and they fight. Then something happens like someone telling the truth about a misunderstanding or someone realizing that their life is meaningless without the other, and one goes running back to the other, usually racing to beat a train or a plane in a montage over which some trite pop tune plays. Then the Big Speech followed by the Big Kiss.”

She says all of this in what seems like one breath, and I realize that the people around us are staring, openly listening to her adorably accurate ramble.

Behind us, I hear a woman say, “Let’s see something else,” and I laugh.

“Two for _Thunderhawk,_ ” I tell the ticket agent, and hand over my card. “That was brilliant, by the way,” I tell her, ushering her inside, my hand on her back again.

“What, my generic rom-com summary?” she looks up at me, and I am struck by her eyes again.

“Yeah. It was great. I hate those movies. Snack?”

“How many have you seen?”

“More than you would expect,” I say, striving for just vague enough.

“Popcorn, please,” she says.

“Oh, good. I have to have popcorn.”

I order the popcorn and let her choose the beverage (I really don’t care), and we make our way into the dim theatre. I also let her choose the seats. She likes to sit way in the back, dead center.

“Is this okay?” she asks.

“Yes, of course.” I generally like a few rows lower, but there are more important things to have unbending preferences about than where to sit in a movie theatre.

Unless you want to sit in the front row. That’s just wrong.

“Mmm, one of the good things to come from the New World,” Gwen says, taking a handful of popcorn, delicately popping one piece at a time into her mouth.

I’m always amused at the difference between how women eat popcorn and how men eat popcorn. Women eat one piece at a time. Men shovel it in by the handful.

I do try to be neat about it, which is more than I can say for the bloke sitting two rows in front of us. I try to strive for smaller handfuls.

“Have you ever been to America?” I ask.

“No. I can’t decide if I want to or not. You?”

“I spent two weeks in New York right after I graduated,” I say. Shagged every pretty young American bird that was willing, too. They loved my accent. As soon as I heard the words, “Ooo, I _love_ your accent!” I knew I was in. It was embarrassingly easy.

“How did you find it?” she asks.

They greeted me with open legs. “It was pretty good. Very noisy and very crowded, though. I don’t think I could live there. Not New York, anyway. Maybe someplace less hectic.”

“Were you on your own, or did someone go with you? Leon?”

“No, Leon’s a year older than me, actually, so he was already under indentured servitude to my father,” I chuckle. “Just me. Father actually thought it would be a good idea for me to see some of the world. Of course he was thinking Paris or Berlin or someplace…” I wave my hand vaguely, searching for the word.

“European,” she provides.

“Yes. Father is a bit of a snob.”

“A bit?”

“A lot,” I laugh. “So when I told him I’d chosen America, he wasn’t happy. All he asked was ‘New York or Los Angeles?’ as if there were no other places in the country. I told him New York, and he just shrugged and walked away. I took the gesture to mean ‘lesser of two evils.’”

“I’m not sure I want to meet your father,” she says, lifting the giant bucket that they call a soft drink cup from the holder between us and taking a sip.

“Oh, he’s fine. You own your own business, he’ll respect that,” I say, and suddenly I’m patting her hand reassuringly. I also realize that this is the earliest I’ve ever talked about meeting my father.

She turns her hand and threads her slender fingers through mine just as the lights go down and the previews start. I didn’t actually intend to hold her hand through the movie, but my hand moved without telling my brain first.

Oh well.

 

xXx

 

“That was really good,” I say as we walk out into the night.

“I know! Each time they say ‘Best one yet!’ and this time I think they were actually right,” she agrees. She’s holding my hand again. I guess we’re doing that now. Her hand is nice, though. Long fingers, neat, short nails (probably short because of her job), and while her palms are slightly callused, the skin on the back of her hand is incredibly soft and silky. My thumb absently strokes her skin from time to time, again without my consent.

“Do you have to take me home right away?” she asks, stopping on the pavement outside, looking up at me with those eyes she has. “I mean, I know you’re likely going to take me home and then go back to your place again, but…”

“It’s a nice night. Would you like to walk a bit?” I ask, smiling a little. And she’s right. I’m still not going up to her apartment, and I’m not bringing her back to my place either.

She shivers a little. “It’s a little chilly.”

“I have a jacket in my car,” I offer, nodding towards it.

“Okay,” she says. We walk to my car and I open the back door. I grab my navy hoodie and hold it out for her. She slips her arms into the sleeves and then shoves them up so they don’t hang off of her hands.

“Here,” I say, taking her hand. I roll up each sleeve in turn so they are the correct length for her.

“Thank you,” she says, a little too softly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. I am momentarily flummoxed. All I did was roll up a couple sleeves, why is she all breathy and flushed?

I look down at her in my sweatshirt. Damn, but she looks cute.

“Let’s walk,” I say, and this time I offer my hand. She takes it immediately, smiling, seeming to recover from whatever must have overcome her.

As we walk, I notice that she gets appreciative glances every now and then from men that pass us, and I feel inexplicably jealous. Possessive.

“So where do you live, Arthur?” she asks, heedless of her admirers.

“You mean you haven’t tracked me down on the internet? What kind of a stalker are you?” I ask.

She sighs, feigning exasperation. “ _You_ are the stalker, not me, remember?”

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” I say, laughing. “Um, I have a condo in the upper town. One of those converted warehouses.”

“Ooo, you _are_ posh,” she teases, but it stings a little.

“I’m not posh,” I mutter, frowning. “I mean, I try not to be.”

“I was teasing, Arthur,” she says quietly, reaching over with her other hand to squeeze my arm, sensing that she’s struck a nerve. “I’m sorry,” she adds softly.

“I know, it’s just… nothing. It’s fine,” I say, smiling.

She stops. “What is it?” she asks quietly. She really wants to know.

There’s a bench nearby, so I steer her over to it and sit. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be sensitive, it’s just…” I rake my hand through my hair. This is hard. I don’t have to explain this to most people. “I’ve spent the last couple years trying not to be a spoiled rich kid. My father has money. I have a fair amount myself, because of my mother. I was almost two when she died, and she had a will that my father didn’t know about. In it, she specified that everything of hers was to be mine when I came of age, and none would go to my father. He didn’t need it anyway.”

“Wow,” she says. She’s holding both my hands now.

“I think she was still smarting over the affair.” My father’s affair is also almost common knowledge. He’s a high-profile socialite who had an affair that produced a child. Of course it was news.

“Oh, that’s right,” she says, nodding. “You have a… half-sister, is it?”

I nod. “So anyway, yes, I live in a nice condo in the upper town. Yes, I drive a nice car. But I’m… trying really hard to not be the prat I used to be.”

“I don’t think you’re a prat,” she says, her eyes shining with sincerity. I don’t think this girl could lie if she tried.

“Thank you. Good thing you didn’t meet me three years ago,” I say, casting my eyes skyward.

“Why, because I would have hated you?”

“Probably. And if you hadn’t, our… interaction… would have been brief, indeed,” I say, frowning.

“Ah,” she nods, understanding. “Were you terrible?”

“I honestly don’t know,” I say. “I think I probably was, but I… I think I’ve made it worse in my head. Because I feel terrible about how I was now.”

“I don’t think I want to know,” she says.

“I don’t have any diseases or anything,” I blurt, surprising us both.

She laughs. “Well, that’s certainly reassuring.”

We sit on the bench, staring at one another for what seems an eternity.

I really want to kiss her. She wants me to kiss her.

I steel myself again, and lift my hand to her face, just caressing her cheek with my knuckles.

She turns her face slightly into my hand, closes her eyes, and says, “You’re very frustrating, do you know that?”

I smile sadly and drop my hand. “I know.” Try it from this side once. “I’m… I’m sorry. I’ve never told anyone all that before. I didn’t mean to throw a bucket of cold water on our date.”

“You didn’t,” she says, smiling again. She stands and offers me her hand again. “Let’s go back.”

I take her hand and stand, walking back to my car now.

“Why have you never told anyone that before?” she asks.

I shrug. “Never needed to or wanted to, I guess. Usually if someone insinuates that I may be slightly privileged—”

She snorts, and I laugh a little.

“I either ignore it because they’re…” oh boy “…not important enough for their opinion to matter, or I just tell them to piss off and go about my day.”

Stop, mouth, stop.

“There’s something about you that makes me very… forthcoming,” I mutter, furrowing my brow again. She just smiles up at me.

This is very dangerous, I realize. I open the car door for her, and she climbs in.

I close the door, climb inside and look over at her. Then it hits me: it’s her eyes. It’s those honey brown, honest, trusting, non-judgmental eyes that make my mouth start talking before my brain can rein it in.

It’s not a long drive back to her apartment, and we ride in a strangely comfortable silence the short distance there. I find that I rather like that she doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence with prattle. I pull up in front of her apartment and she climbs out of the car before I can open the door for her.

“Hey!” I protest, “You’re not supposed to do that!”

She laughs and simply shrugs and smiles, as if to say _you’re not the boss of me._

All I can do is laugh. She’s right. I’m not.

“I had a really nice time, Arthur,” she says softly, twisting her fingers together in front of her and biting her lower lip slightly.

“Even though I kind of threw a wet blanket on things with my little confession?” I ask.

“You didn’t,” she repeats, reaching for my hand again and pulling me a little closer. “I’m glad you told me.”

_I lean down over her and press my lips against hers, softly at first, wrapping her in my embrace. She winds her arms around my neck, her fingers roaming up into my hair, lightly scratching her nails on my scalp. I groan into her and press harder, willing her lips open beneath mine, and suddenly I'm moving forward, pressing her back against the wall, our tongues clashing as we consume one another with our kisses._

_My hands roam, exploring her curves, one hand grabbing her backside and hauling her flush against my body_ _…_

“Arthur?” Her voice snaps me out of my daydream. “Is something wrong?”

“No… sorry,” I stammer, suddenly afraid that she was able to see my thoughts just now. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I tell her.

Then I really do lean down, take her face gently between my hands, my thumbs caressing her cheeks (oh, her skin is so soft), and I finally give in to what we both want. I close my lips over hers, softly and slowly, lingering just long enough to almost satisfy.

Somehow I have a feeling that nothing will ever be enough with this girl. She’s addictive. This is troubling.

I pull gently away before she unknowingly convinces me to reenact the daydream I just had. I open my eyes and gaze down at her, feeling slightly dazed. Her eyes are still closed, but she opens them slowly and smiles sweetly at me.

She’s beautiful.

And once again I feel like a twat.

“Goodnight,” she whispers and turns towards her door.

I watch her go inside, making sure she gets safely in, and as I walk to my car it hits me: She doesn’t push. I know she wants more from me, but she’s not pushing me. She’s willing to go at my carefully calculated pace. It’s a revelation, and one I’m not sure I’m ready to think too deeply about yet.

I slip into the driver’s seat and drop my forehead against the steering wheel for a moment, gathering my thoughts. Then I start the engine and drive home alone.

She still has my hoodie.


	9. Day 8

“Arthur,” she answers, her voice pleasant, “I was just about to give in and call you.”

“Sorry, I’ve been cleaning, if you can believe that,” I say. It’s true. I have been cleaning my condo.

“What? You don’t have a service to do that?” she asks archly. She’s teasing me again. The brave little thing that she is, she takes the one thing about which I’m sensitive, that we just talked about last night, and twists it to poke fun at me.

I love it.

“Hilda left recently. She said something about not being able to look at another dinosaur bone without screaming. Also something about having had it with the poo stains on the walls…”

She descends into laughter; that amazing laugh that I love to hear.

“Honestly, I do like to keep my house tidy,” I say. “And yes, I do clean the place myself, for your information. I even do my own laundry and everything.”

“I hate laundry,” she says. I can almost see her scowling. “Once or twice I’ve gone so far as to go to the shop and buy new knickers just to avoid doing the washing,” she admits.

“But surely that just means _more_ washing,” I point out.

“Shut it. Don’t ruin my delusion. I just hate going to the launderette.”

“Yeah, I would hate that, too,” I say.

“ _Would_ hate that?” she asks. “Of course you have your own.”

“Spoiled rich prat, remember?” I say. “I did buy them with my own hard-earned money, I will have you know. I haven’t even touched my mother’s money yet, in fact.” This is true. I haven’t. I don’t really need it for anything. Maybe one day if my car dies or if I want to buy a big house or something…

But the only reason I’d need a big house is if I had a family. Which isn’t going to happen unless I get out of this curse.

“Really? That’s interesting,” she says. I’m not sure exactly what she means by “interesting,” but I’m not going to pursue it right now.

“So, Miss Guinevere, I was thinking,” I say, leaning back on the couch. There’s a joust on telly right now, but I’ve got the sound off. I’m not really paying attention to it anymore, anyway. My favorite player, my old school mate Percival Henderson, is already out. He really needs to get a new horse.

“That can be dangerous,” she says.

“Quite. I was thinking that you know some about my family now, but I don’t know anything about yours, apart from the fact that they’re all, well…”

“Dead,” she supplies.

“Yeah. And I don’t even know your last name, either. That occurred to me last night as well.” I was up late last night, unable to sleep. She wouldn’t leave me alone.

“Leodegrance,” she says.

“That’s a mouthful.”

“Oh, you think so, Mr. _Pendragon_? Yours is no ‘Jones’ or ‘Smith’ either,” she points out.

“True, but my first name isn’t Guinevere, either.”

“Yeah, it’s really fun signing my name on things. Usually I just write G. Leodegrance and have done.”

“Is that legal?”

“Been getting away with it so far,” she says. “So. What do you want to know about my family?”

“Does it bother you to talk about them? If it’ll make you sad or uncomfortable, you don’t have to,” I say. The last thing I want is a sad or uncomfortable Guinevere.

Huh. That’s really true.

“No, it’s fine. Um, okay. So. Well, first thing, is the reason I’m nervous about meeting your posh father is partly because my family isn’t like yours. We’re not old money, well, we’re not really _any_ money, and the only time our name is in the paper is when someone dies.”

“I don’t care about that,” I say.

“Your father might.”

“I don’t care about his opinion, either.”

“Doesn’t make it any easier for me.”

“Guinevere, let me worry about that. And besides, it’s not like you’re going to be meeting him tomorrow, or even next week,” I say. I do have that awards dinner coming up next month, though. I’ll want her to be my date.

“Oh,” she says. She sounds a little disappointed.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say. “You will meet him. I just don’t know when, exactly. That’s all I meant.”

“So you’re not worried about his reaction because I was raised working class?”

“Worried about his reaction? Honestly, a little. He’s a narrow-minded snob sometimes. But it’s not going to change _my_ opinion about you, I promise you. I’m a grown man; he can’t forbid me to do anything anymore.” If I can hold off them meeting until the dinner, at least it’ll be in a highly public venue so that, if he does have an issue, he won’t do anything. I’d just have to deal with him later, and I can handle that. “What did your father do?”

“He worked at the ironworks,” she said. “He died when I was 21. Accident at work.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I can only think of the most horrible, painful ways to die at a place like that.

“It was awful, yes,” she whispers, as if reading my thoughts. “I’d rather not go into detail about that, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” I say. I find I don’t really want to know. “And your mother?”

“She died when I was young. I think I was six, so I was old enough to understand that she wasn’t coming back, but not quite old enough to understand how to deal with my emotions about it.”

“That must have been hard,” I say. “Do you have memories of her, though?”

“Yes, I do. Not vivid ones, but I definitely have them. I remember drawing pictures with her. She had this big roll of white paper she kept under the bed. She would unroll it across the kitchen floor and we would draw big, ridiculous pictures. And then Elyan would toddle across the paper and muck it all up,” she says, laughing wistfully.

“Elyan is your brother?”

“Yes, he was younger by two years. It’s weird. I remember him when Mum was alive as being always sticky.” She laughs again.

“Boys are like that,” I say. “Except for me. I wasn’t allowed to get dirty.”

“Really?”

“No,” I laugh. “Father used to hate it when I would come home covered in mud. So naturally I would do it as much as possible.”

“You’ve got issues, Arthur,” she says, chuckling.

You have no idea, Guinevere. “Some. He wasn’t exactly the warmest parent. Can I ask how your mum died?”

“It was very strange and unexpected. She came down with what she thought was a cold. It kept getting worse instead of better. She finally went to the doctor and he put her in hospital right away. They thought it was pneumonia, and gave her treatment, but apparently it was some other virus they never found, hiding in there somewhere. There wasn’t even time to consult with any Druid healers or anything. Just one night she was gone.”

“Wow. That’s terrible,” I say softly. I notice I’m holding a pillow from the couch, holding it to my chest, one hand gently moving, as though I am consoling it. “They were treating the wrong thing the whole time,” I mutter. Then I realize that the pillow is her. Well, a substitute for her. I want to hold her in my arms and make her pain go away.

Flabbergasted, I drop the pillow to the floor. Get a hold of yourself, man.

“Did your father do anything about this?” I ask.

“Well, people advised my father to press charges, try to get recompense, but he wouldn’t. He said Mum wouldn’t want that. It wasn’t malpractice. He maintained that to his last day. ‘Doctors are just human beings,’ he would say.”

“What do _you_ think?” I ask, back in control of myself again. I am genuinely curious.

“I think I agree with Dad,” she says.

I’m not sure I agree, but then, it sounds like her father was a much different person than my father.

“You don’t agree,” she says.

“I don’t know what I think,” I say. “Other than I wish my father was more like yours.”

She chuckles. “He wasn’t perfect, I’ll say that. But Elyan and I always knew we were his priority.”

“That must have been nice.” I would trade all my wealth and privilege – well, most of it, maybe not all – for the knowledge that my father was proud of me. “Wait, Elyan Leodegrance? He was your brother?”

“Yes, why, did you know him?”

“No, but I remember his name from the attack. From the, um, casualties list in the paper.”

“As I said. Only in the paper if we die,” she says. “I suppose it is an unusual name…”

“No, not just the list. He saved all those children in the hospital, too, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” she says, quiet pride in her voice.

“He was a hero, Guinevere. You can be proud of that. Your father would have been proud.”

“I know. Thank you.”

“Want to talk about something else?” I ask. This conversation is getting too heavy. And the Odin Ogres just pulled into the lead. I’m so going to give Percival shit about this.

“Yes. What do you like to do for fun?” she asks.

Fun? What’s that? I don’t remember how to have fun half the time. “Right now I like watching jousting. I have it on telly right now, actually. Muted, though, because I’m talking to you. I like being outdoors. You know, fishing, hiking, maybe camping.”

“Maybe?”

“I’ve never been, but I like the idea of it.”

“That’s strange,” she says, laughing at me again. “Sorry, I shouldn’t call you strange.”

“I’m all right with strange. What do you like to do?”

“I like to cook. I’d like to have a house one day so I can garden. If I’m bored I either bake something or watch a cooking show,” she laughs. “And _then_ I bake something.”

“You already know about my skill in the kitchen,” I say.

“Yes, Arthur ‘Cup-o-Noodles’ Pendragon,” she teases me.

“Hey, those things are good,” I protest.

“The only thing those noodles are good for is taking them _out_ of the cup and using them in other recipes.”

“You can do that?”

She laughs at me again. “Of course. There is no Food Police that’s going to come after you for removing the noodles from their precious cup.”

“I wouldn’t even know what to do with them outside of that little cup,” I admit.

“You’ve never even considered the possibility, Arthur. We’ll have to work on that. Cooking is remarkably easy, really.”

“You’ve never seen me in a kitchen.”

“We’ll have to do something about that as well,” she says. She really wants to teach me how to cook. I can’t figure why. It’s something I’ve always shied away from.

“I can do macaroni and cheese,” I offer.

“Oh, well done, you,” she says, laughing yet again. “Goodness, we’ve been talking a while. Do you still have more cleaning to do?”

“Just the bathroom,” I say. I cannot abide a dirty bathroom. Because that’s gross.

“Well, my mobile battery is blipping at me now,” she says. She sounds a little sad.

“How rude.”

“I know. Oh. There it goes again. Better go before it cuts us off. Have a good evening, Arthur,” she says.

She wants to invite me over. Or she wants me to invite her over. Or out somewhere together. I can hear it hanging in the air.

“You, too. I’ll try to have something not noodle-based for dinner,” I say, trying to lighten things a bit.

“So, you’ll get takeaway,” she declares.

“Um, yeah. Pretty much. Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Yes, I’d like that.”

The call is disconnected, and I presume her phone finally gave up. A couple of minutes later I get a text.

G: _Sorry, battery. Phone plugged in now. Good night! :)_

_A: Understood. Sweet dreams._

I rub my ear. It’s all hot and probably red.

I feel like a gigantic heel. Here I am, on this path that only leads to heartbreak, and she’s had enough of that. Someone should just shoot me.

No. That would be too easy.

I glance at the TV. The Camelot Dragons lost. Maybe they’ll do better on Saturday.


	10. Day 9

“Percival, you’ve got some nerve calling me after that suck-fest yesterday,” I taunt, answering my mobile on Monday morning.

“Oh, well, then, perhaps I’ll give these tickets to someone who will support the team even if we lose,” he replies.

“Don’t you dare. And get a new horse, mate, yours can barely carry you anymore.”

“I know. I’m working on it. Coach has one in mind for me. Hoping to check him out this afternoon, in fact. Granite is getting old, and you’re right, he’s having trouble carrying me now. He needs to retire and spend his day in a pasture giving it to willing mares, making new little horsies.”

I snort. “I hope the new one works out in time for Saturday, then. Where are you?”

“Mum’s. Meet me for lunch?”

“She cooking?” Percival’s mum is the mum everyone dreams of having. Growing up, the house was always spotless, her food was amazing, and she doted on her giant baby boy. And me as well, his little friend who had no mummy. She was pretty, too, so I didn’t mind. Still not bad on the eyes, come to think of it.

“Yeah. She’s making a big pot of potato soup. And homemade bread to go with.”

“Oh, man. The soup with the bacon and cheese and all that?”

“You know it.”

“I’m there, mate.”

“Bring Leon, too.”

“Right. He’ll be thrilled.”

“Just don’t tell him about the tickets. I only have two this time, and they’re yours.”

“Thanks, mate.”

“I assume you have a little birdie to bring along?”

“Of course I do. Have to find out if she wants to come. She prefers action movies over romantic comedies, so I think it’s a fairly safe bet.”

“12:30,” he tells me. “Don’t be late or Mum will be unhappy.”

“I would never dream of making your mum unhappy.”

“Stay away from my mum,” he warns, trying to sound menacing.

This is the paradox that is Percival. He’s a huge, muscular oak tree of a man. But he’s about as menacing as a puppy. I think it’s his face. He’s had the same one since he was about seven. It’s like no one ever told his face to get rugged, or something. And he’s also a very friendly, easygoing bloke off the jousting field. Birds call him “sweet” and “cute.”

I always tease him that it’s a good thing he wears a helmet during matches, or his opponents wouldn’t feel threatened.

He doesn’t like that very much.

“Your mum loves me.”

“I know. She thinks you’re the golden boy. That’s the problem.”

“She loves you more and you know it. Now shut it, I’m supposed to be working.”

“12:30,” he reminds me, as if I have a problem with punctuality. I don’t.

“Piss off.” I hang up on him and pick up my desk phone to ring Leon.

 

xXx

 

An hour later, my mobile rings again.

“Hey,” I answer. “I was going to call you later.” I feel my face smiling, but I’m really not certain why.

“Short notice, but are you free for lunch?” she asks. “I need to get out of here for a bit.”

“Oh, bugger, I just made plans an hour ago. However,” I say, “I am going to lunch with Percival Henderson, and he has tickets for me for the joust on Saturday. The Dragons are in town. Would you care to accompany me to the jousting match, my lady?”

“Good sir, I would be honored. Even though I’m disappointed I don’t get to have lunch with you today,” she says. “But if you’re getting tickets, I forgive you.”

“Tomorrow? Lunch, I mean? You and me?” I apparently have lost the ability to form sentences.

“Yes, definitely. I’ll suck it up and eat my lunch here today and go out with you tomorrow. Where should we go?”

“Do you know The Rising Sun?”

“Yes, of course. Meet me there at one?”

“If we do 12:30, it’ll be less crowded.”

“12:30, then. How do you know Percival Henderson?”

“I’ve known him for years. We went to the same school. He frequently gets me tickets.”

“Sefa is going to lose it. She has a huge crush on him,” she tells me.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. It’s beyond a crush, really. She knows all his stats and actually knows jousting better than a lot of men I know.”

“Interesting. Is she pretty?”

She makes an exasperated noise at me.

“I’m serious. Percival is single and straight.”

“Yes, she’s prettier than me, in fact.”

“I doubt that.” Where the hell did that come from?

“You’re sweet, but you haven’t seen her,” she argues, but I know she’s smiling and likely blushing. I can hear it in her voice.

“All I meant is that if she’s smart enough to keep track of jousting statistics, works as your assistant, which I assume she’s good at, as well as pretty, Percival might be interested in meeting her. Is she single?”

She makes that noise again. “Yes. Goodness, you’re like someone’s old auntie, playing matchmaker.”

“Arthur,” my father materializes in my doorway.

“One second,” I say.

“Is that your dad?” she whispers. Why is she whispering?

“Yes,” I whisper back, and she laughs.

“I’ll let you go. Lunch tomorrow. I’m buying,” she tells me.

“We’ll see,” I say, and she snorts and hangs up on me.

“New girl already?” Father asks.

“What can I do for you, Father?” I sigh, ignoring both his question and the pang of guilt that hits me on hearing it.

“Mayor Godwin wants to meet with us Friday to see the plans for the rec center. Will this model be ready by then? You know how they love those things.”

“Should be,” I say. It should be an easy sell. Father and Godwin went to university together, and are old friends. Father isn’t shy about using his connections to get us more contracts.

The only little fly in the ointment is the fact that Elena is Godwin’s daughter. He wasn’t mayor when I was with her, which I suppose is a good thing, but I don’t know if he’s forgiven me or not. It’s been more than a year, so I guess I’ll find out.

Sometimes it hits me that I seem to be spinning a massive spider web, snaring unsuspecting women, keeping them until I’m done with them, and then leaving the empty husks behind without looking back.

But it’s not entirely my fault.

Is it?


	11. Day 10

I pull into a parking spot and look around the lot, wondering if Guinevere is here yet and which car is hers.

I see her standing outside the doors, watching a woman walk past with a dog. The dog pauses and sniffs her, and I see her chat with the owner a second before bending slightly to let the dog smell her hand before she scratches him behind the ear.

I wonder what that feels like, her strong fingers rubbing…

Stop it.

I’ve never seen her dressed for work, and she looks casual but quite cute. Snug black scoop neck t-shirt and cargo khakis that hug her hips but are otherwise loose. She has her hair pulled back in a loose bun at the nape of her neck and she’s wearing lavender canvas trainers on her feet.

“Making friends?” I ask as I approach. She’s stooped down now, talking to the dog, rubbing him under his chin. He is cute, his tongue lolling out to one side as he stares up adoringly at her.

Not that I blame him. “Hey,” I greet her softly. She looks up at me, mildly startled.

“Hi,” she grins and stands. “Goodbye, Murray,” she says to the dog. “Thank you. Have a good day,” she tells the owner. The woman smiles and then continues on her walk.

“He was too cute,” she says.

I lean down and kiss her cheek hello. “Hungry?” I ask.

She nods. “I’ll need to wash my hands now,” she comments as we walk inside. “I don’t really fancy having Essence of Canine with my lunch.”

“This way,” the hostess takes us to a table, and I wait for Gwen to sit first.

“Go ahead and sit, Arthur. I’m going to run and wash up.”

“Can I order you a drink?”

“Just water,” she tells me, and I nod. I sit and glance over the menu. I eat here so often that I don’t really need to look at it, but it’s something to do while I wait.

“Dining alone today?”

I look up and see that our waiter is Gwaine, the willing object of Leon’s desire. “My date is washing her hands. She made friends with a dog outside and needed to wash up,” I explain.

He looks a little forlorn. “She? So, not that tall drink of deliciousness you usually lunch with?”

“Leon? No, he’s in Caerleon until tomorrow on business,” I say. I angle my head at him. “Hasn’t he called you yet?”

“No, he hasn’t, and I lost his number.”

I wonder what happened. Leon isn’t usually forgetful or careless. “I’ll find out what happened,” I tell him.

He smiles and takes our drink order. I pull out my mobile and start texting Leon as Guinevere returns.

“What’s that about?” Gwen asks me, opening her menu.

“Oh, Leon and Gwaine – that’s the waiter – have been idly flirting for weeks now, and it finally came to a head –”

“Interesting choice of words,” she snorts, and I laugh.

“All right, they exchanged numbers last week and Leon hasn’t called him. I am investigating.”

“Okay, Auntie, you do what you need to do,” she says, peering over the top of her menu at me.

I stick my tongue out at her.

“Water for the lovely lady,” Gwaine says, returning with his characteristic flourish, “and lemonade for Blondie.”

Blondie? My phone buzzes.

“Hang on,” I say. “Well, bugger. Leon lost your number as well.”

“He did?” Gwaine leans down as Arthur lifts his phone to show him the text.

“That’s not like him at all,” I say. “You must have him pretty flustered.”

“Hell, mate, I look for him at lunch every day. I’ll even trade with other servers just to wait on your table.”

“Is that what you did today?” Gwen asks, and he nods. “Sorry to have disappointed you,” she says, but she’s grinning at him.

“Darling, you are no disappointment. I promise you if I wasn’t gay I’d be all over you like a cheap suit,” he says, winking at her.

She laughs. “Save your flirting for someone who’s buying what you’re selling,” she tells him. “Or for Leon.”

He laughs with her. “I should take your order,” he says, lifting his pen.

Guinevere orders a chef salad, and I get a grilled chicken sandwich and chips. I tell Gwaine to bring his mobile over on one of his trips to our table and I’ll give him Leon’s number again.

My phone buzzes again. “Sorry,” I say.

“Don’t be. This is very entertaining,” she tells me. She takes a lemon wedge from the little dish Gwaine brought with her water and drops it into her glass.

“The number got washed in his trouser pocket,” I tell her, chuckling. “Leon is usually a pillar of organization and responsibility. This is not normal behavior for him at all.”

“He must be pretty smitten,” she says.

Somewhere deep down, in a corner of my brain that I keep carefully locked, a small voice tells me that I know the feeling.

“This is really sweet of you, actually, helping your friend like this,” she adds. She lifts her glass and takes a sip of her water through a straw, her eyes never leaving my face.

She’s flirting with me. I know it, and she knows I know it, yet my eyes watch her full lips, dark pink, close around the straw and suck. Then she smirks at me, just a little.

“Well,” I say, clearing my throat, “Leon is my friend. That’s what you do.”

“I haven’t told Sefa about Percival yet,” she says. “I was hoping we could surprise her. You know, get something signed?”

“Mmm, yes. I have passes so we see him afterwards. You’ll like him, he’s a top-notch bloke,” I say. “We’ll get to go into the stables and everything. If you want, I mean.”

“I’d love that. Is he as big as he looks? He looks like a giant.”

“Yeah, he is. If I stand behind him, you can’t see me,” I tell her. I _don’t_ tell her that I actually did that once back in school to hide from a girl that I’d just broken up with via a note.

That was before I’d turned pro, obviously. The thought is sobering. I look over and see her studying me, curious, but not pressing. I wonder what my face looks like.

Gwaine returns with our plates, but no phone. “Next time, darling,” he tells me. Being called “darling” by another man doesn’t even faze me anymore. “We’re not supposed to bring them out on the floor, so I may have to slip it to you under the table.”

Gwen laughs loudly and openly at his double entendre. Heads turn. “I like her,” Gwaine tells me, nodding at Guinevere, “she’s a naughty little chickadee.”

“You have to admit…” I say, chuckling now, if only because Gwen’s laughter is infectious.

“Well, I may have phrased it that way a bit intentionally,” Gwaine admits before scurrying away again.

“So, how was your morning?” I ask. I notice she dips her salad in the cup of dressing (she requested it on the side) instead of pouring it over the top.

“Busy,” she says. “I’ve been working on this set – necklace, earrings, and a bracelet – for a customer for over two weeks now. I can’t seem to get the time to just sit and work on it, because things keep interrupting. I mean, Sefa’s great and all, but sometimes there are questions she can’t answer. Or a customer comes in wanting something designed, which I have to deal with.”

“When is your client expecting that set?” I ask. I’m actually interested, which surprises me a little.

“Thursday,” she says.

“Day after tomorrow?”

She nods. “If I’m able to work uninterrupted for even a couple hours, I’ll feel better about my progress. But that’s not likely to happen.”

“Is that why you needed to get out of there for a bit?” I ask.

“Yeah. I ended up stealing bites of my lunch while I worked yesterday. I hate doing that.”

“Not good for you,” I agree. I feel bad for her that she’s so stressed.

“How about you? Is your little model coming along?”

“Mm, yes, I took a photo of it this morning so I could show you,” I say, pulling my mobile out again. “It’s not done yet, but you can get the general idea.”

She takes the phone from me and looks at it. “Wow, that’s very cool.”

“We have a meeting with Mayor Godwin on Friday to pitch the design to him. So I have to have it done by then.” She hands my phone back.

“Wow,” she says again.

“Father is old friends with Mayor Godwin,” I say.

“Of course he is,” she smirks.

“He uses it to his advantage.”

“Of course he does,” she laughs.

“Psst…” Gwaine breezes past, patting my shoulder and dropping something from his fingers. His mobile lands in my lap.

He is back a minute later to check on our meals, and by then I’ve got Leon added to his contacts. Gwaine stands close to me, allowing me to easily slip his phone back into his pocket.

“Ooo, I get my tip early,” he says, causing Gwen to laugh again. He refills her water and promises to return with more lemonade for me.

We chat some more about work, jousting, and food. Guinevere only eats half of her salad. It was as large as her head, after all. She stole a couple of my chips along the way, too. I didn’t mind.

Gwaine comes back with the bill, and she snags it from his fingers before I even get a chance.

“Guinevere…”

“I told you I was buying,” she tells me. She hands her card and the bill to Gwaine and he bites back his laughter. Likely laughter at me.

He’s back in no time, and we stand to leave. “Thanks again, mate,” he tells me.

“Call him tonight. He’ll be in a hotel room with nothing to do,” I recommend.

“Right,” he grins at me. “Come back anytime, Chickadee,” he tells Gwen, and she grins at him.

“I’ll make sure to ask for you when I come here,” I tell Gwaine, and he seems to like that idea. So does Guinevere, interestingly. “That way you won’t have to try to swap with people.”

“As long as you’re with this one or the tall one,” he teases. “If it’s anyone else, don’t bother.” He winks at me again, and I roll my eyes. Then I laugh.

“Where is your car?” I ask as we walk out to the parking lot.

“There. The blue one,” she points.

“Okay,” I say, taking her hand and walking her to the car. It feels remarkably natural, holding her hand. Comfortable, yet… more.

“This was fun. We definitely need to do this again,” she tells me. We are standing in close quarters, sandwiched between her car and the one beside.

“Definitely,” I say. I mean it, not only because I have to (lunch dates are super easy), but because I want to (she’s a really fun date). “You need to get back to work.”

“So do you. We both have deadlines to meet.”

I nod. She lifts her chin, and I lean down and kiss her, still a chaste, closed-mouth kiss, but still very nice.

“Have a good afternoon,” she tells me softly.

I kiss her once more, quickly, because I just can’t help it. “You, too.”

I see her into her car and then walk to mine, thinking of her. I can feel her lips on mine still. They’re very soft, very full. Lush. I like kissing them. I glance over my shoulder to see her pulling out of the lot, and I feel a small pang in my chest.

I need to regain control over my life. I feel as though I am on the precipice, ready to fall off the cliff and smack into Guinevere’s lap.


	12. Day 11

_“Daddy!” a small voice squeals, and I turn. A little girl, about four years old, runs towards me, arms out. She’s beautiful, with caramel skin, dark curls barely contained in two pigtails, and surprising blue eyes. Her fingertips are slightly stained with various colors. They must have been painting today._

_I feel a smile split my face and I crouch down. She leaps into my arms and squeezes my neck, wrapping her little legs around me, hanging on as I stand with her in my arms._

_“_ _How was school?”_

_“_ _Boring,” she says, her voice muffled as she buries her face in my neck._

_“_ _Boring? Boring how?”_

_She lifts her head and fixes me in her serious blue stare._ _“I’m not_ learning _anything, Daddy. All the other kids don’t even know how to read yet.”_

_“_ _Don’t you like the art projects?”_

_“_ _Yeah, but that’s about it. Today we talked about the letter E,” she says in a tone that suggests that she is well beyond discussing individual letters. Then she actually rolls her eyes. I sigh. She’s far too young to be doing that already._

_I place her in her seat and help her buckle herself in._ _“I’ll talk to the teacher. Maybe she can find something more challenging for you, all right?”_

_She smiles and nods._ _“Like reading my own books while they do that dumb stuff? I would sit and be quiet and not bother anyone.”_

_“_ _Well, I don’t know that I like you calling it ‘dumb stuff,’ but that sounds like a good idea,” I tell her._

_“_ _Sorry. But gluing googly eyes on construction paper Es is dumb.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest now._

_I_ _’m inclined to agree, but I say nothing. She doesn’t need any encouragement._

_I climb into my seat and drive, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the music on the radio. My daughter completely sings the wrong words in the backseat, but I don_ _’t correct her. I smile at her in the rear view mirror at a stoplight, and she makes a silly face at me. I make one back at her, and she giggles._

_My eyes drift to the wedding ring on my hand. My wife made it. She made both our rings. I spin it with my thumb, watching the pattern move as it glints in the sun. The light changes and I pull into a parking spot._

_“_ _Are we surprising Mummy?” she asks._

_“_ _Yes,” I tell her, lifting her down. She takes my hand and we walk to the familiar storefront._

_We walk in, and her back is to us, her hair in a braid. She_ _’s talking to a very pregnant Sefa, oblivious to our presence._

_“_ _Go get Mum,” I lean down and whisper, and she runs the short distance, tackling her mother from behind, throwing her arms around her hips._

_“_ _Oof! I hope that’s my daughter!” Guinevere exclaims, twisting around to look down at her tiny assailant._

_“_ _Surprise, Mummy!”_

_“_ _I like this surprise,” Gwen says, stooping down to kiss and hug her little blue-eyed clone. “And you brought Daddy as well,” she adds, smiling at me._

_“_ _I got done early,” I explain, leaning over my child to kiss my wife._

_“_ _Mmm, I see that,” she says. “How was the presentation?”_

_“_ _Eh. I think it’ll be fine,” I shrug. “The council liked the idea for the senior living facility, so now we go to the next step.”_

_“_ _Good.”_

_“_ _Sefa, you look like you’re going to pop,” I say._

_“_ _I feel like I’m going to pop,” she chuckles, running her hand over her huge stomach._

_“_ _Auntie Sefa, is he moving? Can I feel?” my daughter asks._

_“_ _He’s sleeping now, Love, sorry,” Sefa says, smiling down at her._

_“_ _You’re certain there’s only one in there?” I ask, teasing her for the thousandth time._

_“_ _Quite. He’s a big boy. But of course, look at his father,” she chuckles._

_“_ _True,” I agree. “You ready to go?” I ask Gwen._

_“_ _I have my own car, you know,” she says._

_“_ _Leave it. I’ll drop you off tomorrow morning. I want to take my two favorite girls out for dinner,” I say._

_“_ _Yay!” a small voice exclaims, and my legs are trapped in a tight hug._

_“_ _Mrs. Pendragon,” I say, pulling her towards me, “is that agreeable with you?”_

_“_ _Mmm-hmm,” she agrees, and I hook my finger under her chin and kiss her again, lingering over her lips a moment._

_A moment too long, because there are small hands tugging at my trousers._

_“_ _Daddy!” a tiny voice reprimands sharply._

_“_ _Okay, okay,” I say. “This one had better be a boy,” I mutter, ghosting my hand over Guinevere’s still-flat stomach as we walk out. “Goodnight, Sefa,” I call._

_“_ _You love being ordered around by your women,” she teases._

_“_ _I do,” I admit._

_She kisses me again, heedless of the tiny hand tugging me towards the car._ _“I love you, Arthur,” she says._

_“_ _I love you, Guinevere,” I answer, rubbing my nose against hers._

My eyes shoot open. I look at my alarm clock. It’s 5:30 in the morning.

What the fuck was that? If I didn’t know any better, I would think that it was a vision. But I don’t have magic. Not a scrap.

My half-sister has magic, though. Quite a lot, I understand. But we’d always assumed it came from her mother’s side, as no Pendragon has ever had magic as far back as we can trace.

Maybe she sent it to me.

But why? And if she did, do I _want_ to know why?

And why did I startle awake when I heard myself say the Big Words? Why is my heart pounding like I just ran a marathon? Or had a really good shag?

Speaking of. I investigate. Yes, someone else is awake. More than awake. He’s ready to go.

This is weird. That dream was in no way erotic. It was domestic. I had a daughter.

A daughter. A healthy, adorable, brilliant daughter.

And I was married to Guinevere. We were behaving like normal people. It wasn’t my reset-the-odometer-every-60-days personal hell.

I had a beautiful daughter. I wonder what her name was. Or what her name _will_ be…

I’m so confused.

It was overwhelmingly… normal. And it… aroused me?

Is it because I want that normality so much I can taste it? Or is it because I want that normality with _her?_ With Guinevere.

Bugger me, it’s only Day 11.

I contemplate calling Morgana, but it’s very early and I don’t know if waking her is a wise idea. I’m also not sure if I want to have that conversation with her.

I don’t think I can go back to sleep now. I’m too rattled. Plus I’m afraid of having any more dreams.

I flip on the telly. There’s total crap on.

Shower. I need a shower. Either a very hot or a very cold shower. Perhaps both.

I throw the covers back and stomp to the bathroom.

This is going to be a long day.

 

xXx

 

“Stupid… fake… tree…” I mutter. “Stand up, will you, you little… piece of…”

Ah. Saved by the bell. Well, the buzz of my mobile.

Guinevere. I’ve been putting off calling her after this morning’s unsettling dream. She’s probably wondering where I’ve been all day.

I will admit it: I’m a coward today.

“Hi,” I answer, tossing the uncooperative tree onto the artificial turf lawn of my model.

“Hello, stranger,” she says. I glance at the clock. No wonder, it’s nearly four.

“Sorry, been fighting with trees,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“Little scale model trees. Gives atmosphere, that kind of thing. I hate them. They never want to stand up for me.”

“Perhaps if you asked them nicely,” she says.

I chuckle a little.

“Is something wrong? I mean, besides uncooperative trees?” she asks.

Shit. Does she know me that well already?

“I didn’t sleep well,” I say.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. She genuinely means it, too, I can tell. “Well, perhaps it’s a good thing that I need to stay late tonight, then.”

“You do? Oh, I was going to see if you wanted to use that go-karting rain check tonight.” Was I? Yes, I think I was. Honestly, though, I’m a little relieved that she’s busy.

A little.

“Oh.” Now she sounds disappointed. “Can we do it tomorrow night? My customer is coming for this garbage tomorrow, so it’ll be off my bench and out of my life forever then.”

“Can I see it?” I ask. Suddenly I’m curious as to what it is that’s consuming all her time.

“Hang on. I don’t know if I can take a photo and use the phone at once, so if I lose you, I’ll call you right back.”

I hear her moving things around, I guess to arrange the set so I can see them.

“Why don’t you hang up and I’ll ring you back after I get the photo?” I suggest.

“Okay,” she says absently, and the line goes dead.

A few minutes later the picture comes. It’s really pretty. It’s all these dark red stones tinged slightly with purple, set in gold. I see the bracelet and earrings are done, but the necklace is incomplete.

I smile. She’s put a scrap of paper near the necklace that reads _This isn’t done yet._

I call her, and she picks up immediately.

“That’s very pretty,” I say.

“Thank you. She basically gave me the stones and left the rest to me. Which is why I’m kind of stressing over it.”

“Why? It’s beautiful. What are those stones?”

“Rhodolite garnets. No idea where she got them, but they’re gorgeous.”

I wonder who this client is. “Who is it?”

She sighs. “Catrina Tregor.”

“Yikes.”

“You know her, then,” she says. Not asking.

“Yeah, she tried to make time with Father a couple of years ago.”

“Oh,” she says, sounding surprised.

“Yeah. I mean, she’s pretty enough, but she has the personality of a bloody troll.”

She laughs, and I smile. I feel better talking to her. Why did I think avoiding her was the right thing to do?

“Too right, there,” she agrees. “So do you think she’ll like it?”

“It’s gold. It’s got the stones she gave you. It all matches. That’s all that’s going to count to someone like her.”

She snorts. “You’re probably right.”

“One thing I’ve learned is that money does not buy taste. I’m sure _Lady_ Catrina has someone to pick out her clothing for her.”

She’s still laughing. “Stop it! This is all I’m going to be thinking about when I see her tomorrow now…”

“Then my work here is done,” I declare.

“Yes, and speaking of, we should get back to it.”

“If I must. Stupid bloody trees.”

“Be nice to the trees, Arthur. Be gentle with them and they’ll behave.”

“I’ll try. Don’t work too late,” I say.

“I’ll try not to.”

I set my phone down and return to the model. “All right trees, I don’t like you and you don’t like me. But we’ll try this Guinevere’s way.”

I pick up the tree that I discarded just before, hold it gently, and carefully ease it into place.

It stays. Well, bugger.


	13. Day 12

I don’t hear from her until about 2:30, when I am just reaching for my mobile to send her a picture of my completed model. The phone vibrates in my hand, and I’m so surprised that I nearly drop it.

_G: It’s gone! She just left with it all!_

I smile. Her excitement just pours through the phone.

_A: Did she like them?_

_G: Yes, she did, thank GOD. Her little toady PA was making all the requisite ooos and ahhs when she tried it on._

_A: I remember him. Creepy bastard._

_G: Sefa had to go in the back room. She was too uncomfortable. She said there was something off about him._

Oh, that’s right. Sefa’s a Druid. She probably can sense if someone’s a prick.

_A: That bad, hey?_

_G: She said he made her skin crawl. Gave me the willies, too._

_A: Well, congratulations on your successful sale. :)_

_G: Thank you. How’s the model?_

_A: I was actually just going to take a photo and send it to you. Mobile was in my hand when you texted._

_G: Hit me with it._

I snort a laugh, take the shot and send it over.

_G: Very cool!_

_A: Thanks._

_G: Do you have to compete for the contract?_

_A: Yeah. That’s tomorrow morning._

_G: You’ll get it._

_A: Thank you for your confidence._

I realize that it does mean a lot. This gives me pause, and I stare a moment, pondering this. She thinks I’ll win the bid. No, she _knows_ I’ll win the bid. And it makes me feel good that she feels this way.

Perhaps it’s because mostly the girls I’ve dated have had no interest in my job. Perhaps it’s because she’s an artist, too, just a different kind, so I value her opinion as a peer.

Perhaps her opinion just… matters to me.

_G: We still on for go-karting?_

_A: Absolutely. Only this time I won’t be so easy to beat._

_G: So you say._

_A: Is that a threat?_

_G: Loser buys ice cream._

_A: You’re on._

_G: 7?_

_A: Okay_

 

xXx

 

Just before seven, I press her buzzer.

“On my way,” she says, and a moment later she’s coming out of the door, looking lovely in those skinny jeans she had on the first time I met her, only this time she has on those boots from when we mini golfed, this time over the jeans. She’s also wearing a t-shirt with the letters CIAD on the front and her hair is in a ponytail.

And she’s got my hoodie on. That’s my favorite hoodie. Even more so, now, I realize.

“Nice jacket,” I say, raising an eyebrow at her before bending to kiss her hello. Sneaky little thing turns her face and I kiss her lips instead of her cheek.

I don’t mind at all.

She grins that grin of hers. “Thanks. I just got it last weekend.”

If she wasn’t so cute it might occur to me to be annoyed. I usher her into the car, walk around and drop into my seat.

“That is my favorite hoodie, you know,” I say, smirking at her.

“I’ll probably give it back at some point,” she says, playing with the strings hanging from the hood.

“Probably?”

She nods. “Maybe if it stops smelling like you, I’ll give it back for a bit so you can recharge it,” she says quietly, and my heart lurches.

It’s a good thing I haven’t pulled out into traffic yet. I honestly don’t know what to say to that. I’m shocked at my own response to her simple, bashful comment.

I pull out onto the street. She’s still looking at her fingers, toying with the strings, but at the next stoplight I catch her peeking sideways at me, still waiting for a response.

All I can do is smile at her.

“Sorry if that was too much,” she finally says.

Oh, no. She thinks I’m upset. I’m not. I’m flustered. “It’s okay, really. You just…”

“Caught you off-guard again?”

I nod. “I just didn’t know how to respond,” I say, and suddenly I feel so foolish that I just start laughing.

“What’s funny?” she asks, but she’s laughing, too.

“Me. I’m an idiot,” I say.

“You’re not,” she says. “It’s my fault. My brain-to-mouth filter doesn’t always work.”

Mine has had an out-of-order sign hanging on it since last week after the movie when I found myself spilling my guts to her.

“I like that about you, actually,” I say. “You’re not afraid to say what’s really on your mind. It’s rare.”

“It gets me in trouble sometimes,” she says. “Not everyone enjoys my particular brand of… rambling honesty.”

I pull into the lot and park. “Well, I do. It makes life easier for a Neanderthal like me,” I say, grinning at her now.

“Come on,” she says. “I hope you brought ice cream money.”

“Oh, trash talking already, Guinevere?” I ask as I exit the car.

“You know it,” she says, taking my hand.

I buy us each a set of three races. “Best of three,” I say, smirking at her. “But first, I need to visit the loo.”

“All right,” she says. “I’ll wait here.”

“Won’t be a moment,” I say, striding to the restroom, cursing the fact that I didn’t go before I left my house. I pee as quickly as I can, wash my hands, and walk back out.

There’s a… _guy_ … talking to Guinevere.

I don’t like this. I really don’t.

She’s being polite. Of course she is, she wouldn’t be outwardly rude to anyone. But he’s working his bag of tricks; I can tell from here. Trying to make eye contact, invading her personal space. She unconsciously backs away; he consciously presses forward.

Prick.

I want to shove him, at least. Instead I make my way over as quickly as I can. She sees me approaching and shifts her gaze from him to me, her eyes brightening as I approach.

I like that.

He turns. He’s not even good-looking.

“Pardon me,” I say, brushing past him with hardly a glance. I reach my hand out and Gwen happily takes it.

“Have a good evening,” she tells the interloper, and we walk towards the go-kart line.

“Git,” I mutter, and she giggles.

“Jealous?”

“Hardly. He was ugly.” She snorts. “And he was standing too close,” I add.

“He _was_ trying to chat me up,” she says. “I was turning him down in every way I could think of while still being polite.”

We wind through the line until we catch up to the last people waiting. “Well, there’s your problem,” I remark, and she laughs.

“He didn’t _do_ anything except stand too close, if you’re wondering.”

“Good,” I say.

Why am I so irritated by this bloke? He’s gone. Settle down.

“You _are_ jealous,” she goads me, poking me in the ribs. I jump, and her eyes light up.

“Don’t you dare,” I say.

“I would never,” she says rather unconvincingly.

“You’re a terrible liar,” I laugh, and she pokes me again. “Ah! Stop!”

The line starts moving. Thank God. We shuffle along, following the others through the winding line, like mice going after so much cheese at the end, and I see Lover Boy join the line at the end. Fabulous.

He somehow manages to catch Gwen’s eye and nods at her. We stop moving, and I drape my arm around her shoulders. She leans into me. She feels nice against me. I look around, striving for casual, and I make sure he sees that she is very definitely with me.

Now, _officially_ we haven’t actually agreed to an exclusive relationship, even though on my part it’s been the case since I got her phone number. _Officially_ she could go on a date with this wanker and I’d have nothing to say about it.

But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s a giant douche who was trying to chat up _my_ girl. Even if she’s not _officially_ my girl.

“Green is definitely your color,” Guinevere tells me, nudging me lightly with her shoulder.

“Oh, you like that I might be jealous?” I ask.

“No, I like that you _are_ jealous,” she says. Then she glances over my shoulder, smirks so only I can see, and kisses my cheek.

I want _so_ badly to turn and look, but I resist. “I wonder what kind of ice cream I’ll have tonight?” I ponder.

“Doesn’t matter to me, because _you’ll_ be paying for it,” she says. Her arm is around my waist now. I’m tempted to just pull her fully into my arms, but I don’t know if it would be for show or if it would be because I want to.

I think it may be both. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to keep the physical contact to the slightly-more-than-friends level. Usually I can go a full two weeks before Unlimited Touching happens.

It’s like she knows my rules and is taking great glee in stomping all over them while I watch, not trying to stop her at all. And the strangest part is, I don’t _want_ to stop her.

“Arthur, we’re moving,” she says, pulling me along. Whoops.

“Sorry, miles away for a second there.”

“Ooo, I think we’ll get in this race,” she says.

“Too bad for your not-so-secret admirer,” I say. “He won’t make it.”

“Stop it!” she giggles. Then we reach the front and she scurries towards the one empty kart that is close to the front. The rest are in the back. I shake my head and head towards the next forward-most kart. It’s powder blue. She got the red one.

We start out, and she has a commanding lead. I cannot catch her. After a lap and a half, I am resigned to my fate, and instead concentrate on this teenager who thinks he’s a Formula One racecar driver. He’s been in my way at every turn, and it’s getting on my nerves.

Finally he oversteers and I pass him. But Guinevere is still way ahead, and now they’re directing us back into the pit area.

She’s smirking at me when we meet up, clearly pleased with her victory.

“No little celebratory dance this time?” I ask.

“That’s just for holes-in-one,” she says. “Come on, let’s get back in line.” She grabs my hand and pulls me around to the end of the line again before I can even have a chance to be disappointed that I don’t get to see that dance again.

The second race is much better than the first, because I win.

Lover Boy somehow manages to get in with our group for the third race, and even though I am still keeping a careful eye on him, I win again. I take great pleasure in watching him forlornly watch Guinevere walk over to me, an adorable pout on her face, ceding defeat.

“You win,” she says glumly.

“No congratulations?” I ask, needling her further. Then it hits me: How, exactly, am I expecting to be congratulated?

Before I can figure out where my brain was when I asked that question, she’s leaping up and throwing her arms around my neck in a tight hug.

“Oh!” I exclaim, surprised, my arms surrounding her narrow waist reflexively.

“Congratulations,” she grumbles in my ear. Well, attempts to grumble, anyway. I know she’s smiling, likely because she surprised me yet again.

I see Lover Boy scowling now. I make a rude hand gesture at him behind her back before releasing her. Juvenile, I know, but he seriously needs to piss off.

He turns and walks away. “Shall we?” I ask, offering my hand.

“If we must,” she says. “You get a popsicle this time.” She’s still pretending to be mad, but she’s cracking.

“Wow, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were actually mad,” I say, raising my eyebrows at her.

She cracks. “I’m not very good at it, am I?” she asks, laughing now.

“Not really. You’re much too cute anyway.”

Did I just say that out loud? She blushes and ducks her head. I did.

 

xXx

 

Over ice cream (Well, I have ice cream, a thing called a cyclone which is basically a shake with candy pieces mixed in. She has a soft pretzel with cheese dip), we sit and chat some more.

“Did you go to CIAD?” I ask, indicating her shirt. Camelot Institute of Art and Design. It’s a top-notch art school.

She nods. “Where did you go to school?” she asks, popping a piece of pretzel into her mouth.

“Cornwall. Thought I’d give Father a coronary and go to the rival school,” I chuckle. “He’s a Camelot man through and through, you know.”

She laughs. “Of course you did.” She licks a spot of cheese off of her finger. It’s distracting. “Somehow I get the impression that if he says black, you say white.”

I shrug. “Occasionally I’ll meet him halfway and say gray,” I smirk.

“Well, that’s something,” she says. She looks like she wants to say more.

“I don’t hate my father, in case you’re wondering,” I try.

“I was, a little.”

“We’re just… very different people. I don’t know if I mentioned this, but he wasn’t exactly the most loving and attentive father.”

“I gathered that when you said that you wished that your dad was more like mine,” she says.

“Dad,” I snort. “I’ve never called him ‘Dad.’ It’s always ‘Father.’”

“‘Dad’ has a friendlier, less formal connotation, doesn’t it?” she says.

I nod. “I think if I were to call him ‘Dad,’ he’d probably peer at me and say, ‘Are you addressing me?’” I mimic my father’s voice, and she smiles.

She finishes her pretzel and takes a drink from a bottle of water she bought to go with. I’ve been done with my cyclone for a while, and I’ve been idly toying with the red plastic spoon.

“You’re very serious tonight,” she tells me, reaching over for my hand.

“Am I?” I didn’t realize I was. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Can I help?”

I smile. “You already are,” I say. Just being with her, talking with her, makes me almost forget about the ticking clock over my head. Makes me almost forget that my closest friends think that I’ve got commitment issues. “I wasn’t being all serious when we were racing,” I point out.

“This is true,” she says. Then she leans back and stretches, pushing her arms up over her head. “Crouching over a workbench until late last night followed by work today followed by driving go-karts with precious little padding wears on a girl.”

I hear her talking, but the words don’t penetrate because my eyes have taken all the brainpower to watch her stretch.

“Arthur?”

“Hmm?” Oh, no.

“You are such a man sometimes,” she says, tossing a balled-up napkin at me, laughing.

And you are one hundred percent woman. “Well, when you do something like that right in front of me…” I say. Visions of my hands kneading her stiff muscles, stroking over her skin, easing her tension, flit through my brain.

“Should we go?” she asks.

“You’re tired,” I say. “You need some sleep, because apparently you didn’t listen when I told you not to work too late last night.” We both stand, throw our trash in the bin, and head out.

We stand outside her door, again. I hold her hands in mine, again.

“This was fun. I like spending time with you, Arthur,” she says.

“Yeah. This is probably the most fun I’ve had in a while,” I say, completely honestly. Even when we don’t see each other and just call or text, it’s still more fun than any of the countless (and mindless) dates I went on with Vivian or any of those others.

I lift our joined hands to my lips and kiss her knuckles. “Thank you for listening to me ramble on again,” I say.

“Any time. I… I don’t want you to feel you have to keep things from me,” she says softly. “I like that you tell me things, even when they may not be good things.”

My heart lurches again. This is new.

This is all new. Two years of this life and suddenly I find a girl who really is different than any other girl. Thirteen women. I’ve dated thirteen women, one after the other, and not a one was like her.

“I want you to tell me things, too,” I say. “You’re very interesting.”

“Interesting?”

I furrow my brow. “Not the right word. Fascinating. You fascinate me.” You baffle me. Intrigue me. Beguile me.

I lean down and kiss her, longer but still with my mouth closed. “Promise me you’ll go up and go straight to bed,” I tell her.

“Okay,” she says. I release her hands and bring one hand to her cheek, holding it lightly, tilting it up for another kiss. Her fingers grip my shirt and she presses a little closer.

That’s when I know I need to stop.

“Frustrating,” she whispers. I know she’s talking about me, but I still hold back. It’s not fair to her, but I am still trying to abide by some semblance of my stomped-upon rules.

“Get some sleep,” I tell her.

In my car, I realize that I feel awful. She’s so good, so completely trusting. She deserves better than me, and… no. I can’t even think about Day 60 right now. It already hurts too much.

But the truth is, I’ve trapped us both.


	14. Day 13

I don’t get back from my meeting until nearly three. The presentation was at eleven. Then Godwin wanted to have lunch with Father and me, which took _way_ too long because they were drinking. I didn’t have any alcohol. So then I had to drop Father off at his house before returning to work myself.

I probably could have gone home as well, but any time I can be at the office without Father interrupting me, I take it.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m going to do any _work._

I ring Guinevere, because I haven’t talked to her all day apart from the _Good luck, I know you will be great_ text I got from her this morning.

“Arthur! I’ve been dying all afternoon!” she exclaims.

“Sorry, I got dragged along to a lunch that dragged on,” I explain. “I was going to text you, but then Father was all ‘Who are you messaging? Surely nothing’s that important blah blah blah, manners blah blah, probably sleep with that mobile in your hand, et cetera.’ So I just put it away.”

She’s laughing at my Uther-voice again. “It’s all right. My dad was kind of that way with technology as well. Must be a universal dad thing. So…?”

“We won the bid,” I say, a smile creeping across my face.

“Did he love it? He loved it, didn’t he?” she asks.

“They’re going to go with my design and he _says_ he doesn’t want to change a thing.”

She makes a happy little squeal that would be really annoying coming out of anyone else. “That is brilliant! Congratulations!” she says.

“So, I was thinking we need to celebrate both of our recent successes,” I say.

“Hmm, sounds good.”

“Are you free for dinner tonight? I’d like to take you out for a proper dinner.”

“As opposed to an improper one?” she asks.

I swallow. An improper dinner could be quite…

No. Focus.

“Um, right,” I stammer. “I mean like a nice dinner. Where we’d need reservations…”

“I know what you meant, Arthur. I just couldn’t resist,” she laughs.

“Couldn’t resist messing with me again, right.”

“Yes, I’m free for dinner,” she finally answers my question. “Where did you have in mind?”

“Thought I’d see if the Firelight Room had any openings,” I say.

“Fancy. I may have to sneak out early so I have enough time to look presentable,” she says.

“You always look nice,” I say.

“Well, thank you, but somehow I think the maitre d’ might have a different opinion if I showed up wearing what I have on right now.”

Phrase your next question carefully, Arthur, you don’t want it to sound like one of _those_ phone calls.

“Why, what could be so bad about what you’re wearing?” That’ll do.

“I’m in torn jeans and a t-shirt with a snake on it.”

“A snake?”

“Um, yeah. It was a gift from Sefa. She said that snakes are considered the harbingers of female power.”

“All right, then,” I say. I certainly cannot dispute that Guinevere has power. Especially over me.

“I maybe was overstating things a bit, though. I just don’t much want to be here at the moment. I love my job, but it’s late Friday afternoon, and I just finished a big project.”

“Yeah, I’m kind of only here in a physical sense as well,” I say. “But I need to call the restaurant and see if they can take us.”

“Right. Call them and text me so I know when to expect you,” she says.

“All right.”

“And if you can’t get in there, I’m fine with whatever you find.”

“Even if it’s Gilli’s Fish ’n’ Chips?”

“ _Especially_ then,” she says, laughing.

She has simple tastes, I realize. She doesn’t need the fancy. Takes pleasure in the everyday things around her. It’s refreshing and wonderful.

Still taking her out for the fancy, though.

 

xXx

 

I ring her bell at 6:45 sharp, and wait.

“Be right there, Arthur,” her disembodied voice tells me. Suddenly I am seized by mild panic. How can she know for certain that it’s me? Does she have a surveillance camera in her flat? Probably not. What if I wasn’t me but some disgusting brute bent on doing her harm? This is not good.

Why am I so concerned?

I hear the click of the door’s lock and she emerges from the door.

Dear God, her hair is loose. I haven’t seen it all free like this. It’s better than I’d imagined. I clench my fists inside my pockets to force my hands to stay out of it.

“Arthur? Are you all right?” she asks.

I swallow. My mouth is dry. “Your hair…”

Great. Now that slipped out.

“Oh, no, is it awful? Did I walk through a cobweb?” she starts fretting and patting at her lovely curls.

“No, I… really like it. I’ve never seen it all down like this,” I say.

“Oh.” She drops her hands. “I… don’t normally wear it down because it gets in my way. Work, you know. I’ve even considered cutting it short, but…”

“No!” I interrupt, a little harsher than necessary. It’s not my hair, it’s hers. She can do what she wants with it. “I mean, that would be a shame if you did,” I backpedal, a bit embarrassed at my outburst. “But it’s your hair…”

She giggles at me now. “Maybe I’ll have to wear it down more often. At least when I’m not at work,” she says.

For me?

“Come, we don’t want to be late,” I say, opening the car door for her.

I walk around and climb in, and she leans over and kisses my cheek. “Hello, by the way,” she says.

I smile back at her. She scowls and wipes my cheek with her thumb. “Lip gloss.”

“I’m certain it looks better on you,” I say, starting the car.

“Probably,” she says, chuckling.

“Can I ask you something?” I ask after a bit.

“Of course. You can ask me anything you like,” she says. Usually the people that say that don’t mean it. Some even have something to hide and use it as a cover. She actually means it.

“When I buzzed just now, at your door, how did you know it was me?”

“Because you said you’d pick me up at 6:45, and it was 6:45,” she answers, looking a little puzzled.

“Yes, but how did you _know_ it was me? Do you have a security camera?”

“No…” she says, figuring out where I’m going with this question. “I probably shouldn’t assume, should I?”

“Could be a creepy stalker down there,” I say, frowning.

“It was tonight,” she says, laughing.

“I’m not creepy!” I exclaim, laughing. I walked right into that one.

“Sorry, you’re right,” she says, recovering. “I should take more care.” Then she smiles up at me.

“What?”

“You’re worried about me. That’s sweet.”

I give a small shrug. “It’s no big deal,” I say. I wonder if I shouldn’t have said anything.

I pull up to the valet and we climb out.

 

xXx

 

“So, tell me about your presentation,” Guinevere says, taking a sip of her wine.

“Well, to be honest, I was a bit nervous,” I say.

“You don’t seem the nervous type,” she says.

“I’m normally not. But…” I pause. I should have just cut to the chase. “I dated Mayor Godwin’s daughter about a year ago.”

“Ah, and you weren’t sure if he…”

“Exactly.”

“Was it a bad break-up?”

Elena. The girl I didn’t really want to break up with. As a result, it did end badly. I had to completely lie. I told her I wasn’t happy and wanted something different.

“A bit, yes,” I say. “She didn’t take it well. You… don’t want all the details.”

“Not really, no,” she agrees, and I breathe again.

“Godwin wasn’t Mayor then,” I say.

“Yes, I did the math on that, thanks,” she says, smirking. “Is she still in Camelot?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “She moved away. To America, actually. And it wasn’t because of me. She was a horse breeder, and was offered a job in some place where horse racing is big. Kentucky, I think.”

“Well, that’s good, I guess.”

“She’s married now.”

“How do you feel about that?”

How do I feel? Relieved. I didn’t destroy her. She found happiness with someone who can actually _give_ her happiness. “I’m happy for her. Honestly.”

“So Godwin wasn’t holding a grudge, then?”

“No, actually. The first thing out of his mouth to me was even ‘Elena sends her greetings.’ I was surprised.”

The waiter materializes then, all sycophantic and fawning. This may be due to the fact that I just gave the name “Pendragon” when I made the reservation.

I do occasionally use my father’s status to my advantage. And I always enjoy the thinly-veiled look of disappointment when they realize it’s the younger Pendragon, not the older one.

Guinevere’s right. I _do_ have issues.

We order and I finish telling her about the presentation. Every time I sort of gloss over a detail because it’s not that interesting, she makes me go back and fill in what I’ve left.

I tell her that her advice on the trees worked, too, and she grins smugly at me. Then our food comes.

She’s ordered steak. Not a salad, not chicken or fish, but steak. It’s just a six-ounce filet, but it’s not some dainty girly meal ordered with the express intent of looking like she doesn’t eat much. And she eats it like she’s really enjoying it while still managing to be delicate and feminine.

“What is it, Arthur? Do I have something in my teeth? On my face?” she asks, bringing her napkin to her face and dabbing hastily.

I realize this is the second time I’ve been caught staring. Both times she’s thought it was because something was wrong.

“I was just thinking that I like the fact that you ordered steak,” I blurt. Now it’s out and she’s going to want to know why.

“What?” She looks puzzled.

“Oh. Um, well, usually on a date like this, the girl will order a salad or some small chicken meal or even fish. It’s like they don’t want me to know that they eat. It’s irritating because _of course_ I know they eat. Not like a person has a choice in the matter.”

She chuckles and digs back in, cutting a bite-sized piece of her steak. “I guess I’m just different that way,” she shrugs.

“I’m glad,” I say.

Please, continue to stomp all over my rules if it means you’ll be this refreshingly straightforward.

“I’m glad you’re glad,” she says, smiling at me again. “I don’t see the point in pretense. If people don’t like me for who I am, that’s not really my problem.”

“I wish more people were secure enough to feel that way,” I say.

“Do _you_ feel that way?”

“It’s… more difficult for me. What with the whole posh father and all. Sometimes people pretend to like me because of what I am instead of who I am. It makes it difficult to trust people sometimes.”

“I already liked you before I found out your last name,” she tells me, pointing her fork at me. There’s a carrot speared on the end of it.

“I know,” I smile. “And in the past, it’s been my fault, too. I used it to my advantage.”

“Kind of like you did tonight, to get this reservation?” she asks, raising an eyebrow at me.

“What? I…”

She laughs now. “I saw them trying to stop their faces from falling when they realized it wasn’t Uther coming to dine,” she chuckles.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I ask.

“Always,” she says, leaning towards me.

“I love doing that, actually. Making them squirm like that, as they try to not let their disappointment show. Busting through their carefully-schooled façade.”

She laughs. “You _are_ odd, but I like it.”

 

xXx

 

“I had a really nice time, Arthur,” she tells me, as always, as we stand on the pavement outside her door, her hands in mine. “I’m not going to need to eat for two days…”

I chuckle. “That dessert was worth it, though,” I say. “I _am_ glad we split it.” She looks so beautiful in the soft glow of the streetlamps. If she invited me up, I think it would be very hard to say no tonight. Between the excellent meeting today and the excellent date tonight, this has been one of the best days I’ve had in awhile, and I allow myself a few brief moments to be happy before reality slams its fist into my bollocks.

“What is it, Arthur?” she asks. Was I drifting? I was drifting.

“Just enjoying how lovely you look tonight,” I say. Only half of what I was thinking about, but it’ll do.

“Oh,” she says, looking down at her feet. She’s waiting for me to do something.

My hands move before I have a chance to give serious thought, and I’m pulling her towards me, moving us into the relative seclusion of her doorway as I enfold her in my arms.

“Guinevere.” I whisper her name just before I claim her lips with mine. She melts against me, her arms snaking around my neck.

I allow one hand to creep higher, holding the back of her head softly, just to feel her curls against my hand.

She feels so good in my arms. It’s like her body was created from the negative space of the mold that made me; we fit together so perfectly. Her full lips are so soft and so lush.

And sweet. She is incredibly sweet, and for a moment I wonder if it’s the remains of dessert.

She makes a beautiful sound, a whimpering sigh. My tongue goes investigating, searching out more of her sweet flavor, and her lips part immediately for me. Her tongue meets mine, darting and dancing, and I feel stirrings in places that haven’t felt like being stirred in months.

Vaguely I’m aware of people occasionally strolling past; vaguely I’m aware that we’re drawing looks as we lose ourselves in one another in her doorway.

I don’t care. She is wonderful.

Too wonderful.

I come to my senses, pulling away as gently as I can, shoving the mounting despair down with an imaginary boot. Her lips follow mine briefly, reluctant to leave them. Slowly her eyes open.

“Bloody hell,” I whisper, my voice hushed. My arms haven’t figured out how to let go of her yet.

“Oh, yeah,” she agrees, exhaling heavily. She blinks. “You’re still not going to come up, are you?” she asks, but it’s not really a question.

“Not yet.”

“I’m not trying to seduce you, really,” she says softly. “I’m just… greedy for time…”

I believe her.

I kiss her forehead, because it’s a relatively safe place. But I can smell her hair when I do that, proving my theory wrong. “I know,” I say. “It’s not that I don’t _want_ to, but I just… can’t. Not yet.”

She nods.

“I know I’m a right pain in the arse.”

“You’re not. I just wish I knew what was going on inside that brain of yours sometimes,” she says, tapping my forehead with her finger.

“I wish I knew, too, sometimes,” I chuckle, but there is no humor there.

She lifts up on tiptoe and kisses the edge of my jaw. “What time tomorrow?” she asks quietly, catching me off guard again. She’s not going to pursue this topic further. I am confused, but grateful.

“The match is at noon, so I’ll pick you up at eleven. That way we can at least try to get good parking.”

“Okay,” she says, leaning against me in a lazy sort of hug for a moment. “One more?”

I reach around and tilt her chin up, kissing her. I stubbornly keep my mouth closed this time, but I can still taste her sweet lips.

“Goodnight, Arthur,” she says, pulling away.

“Goodnight, Guinevere. See you tomorrow.”

She unlocks her door and slips quietly inside, and I exhale heavily, leaning against the wall for a few moments. I’m afraid my legs won’t support me right now.

My heart hurts.


	15. Day 14

Percival has gotten me great seats, as usual. Second row, near the center, right behind the Plexiglas barrier to keep the audience from getting pelted by anything like flying dirt clods or, in rare cases, chunks of lance.

It’s a warm, sunny day, thankfully, and Guinevere looks as good in her Dragons t-shirt and jeans as she did in her dress and heels last night. Her hair is pulled back again, though. She actually apologized, saying that if we were going to be inside, she would have left it down for me.

I told her that I have no say over how she wears her hair, but the fact that she wanted to wear it down _for me_ touched me more than I care to admit.

“These are amazing seats!” Gwen exclaims, leaning forward in her seat, looking around eagerly, surveying everything. “And you say we can go and see Percival after?”

“Yeah. He always hooks me up with great seats,” I say. “I’m spoiled.”

She coughs then, and I think I hear the word “posh” in the middle of it. Then she smirks at me.

“Stop,” I laugh.

“Is his mum here?”

“She says she can’t watch him. It makes her too nervous. I think he’s actually glad, because her being nervous would make him nervous, too.”

“So she doesn’t watch him joust?”

“She does on telly. Through her fingers.”

Gwen smiles, and flips through her program, looking at the roster. “So Percival has a new horse?”

“Yeah,” I lean over to look at her program. I didn’t get one. I don’t really need one. “Yeah,” I repeat, pointing. “Chestnut, says here. Granite, his old horse, was getting, well, old. And Perce is big.”

She flips to the page for the Caerleon Gryphons, scans the list quickly, disinterestedly, and closes the program.

“Would you like something to eat? Drink?” I ask. The vendors have been circulating.

“Sure,” she says. “Just a bottle of water. And maybe a sausage on a stick, if the man comes past.”

Foods on sticks are the foods of choice at jousting matches. Could be the parallel one can draw between the lance and the skewer. Could be convenience. Probably convenience.

The competitors ride into the arena, making a couple of circuits around, just being seen. It’s easy to spot Percival, as he’s the biggest one on the Dragons, who are in red. The Gryphons are in gold, and they all appear to be about the same size.

The pomp continues with them all lining up facing the flag, and we all stand for the national anthem. Guinevere sings pretty well, I notice. The teams salute and retreat to their sides.

“Was Percival’s old horse that big?” Gwen asks.

“No. Granite was pretty big, but that thing is a beast,” I say. “Ah.” I catch the sausage vendor’s attention and buy us some lunch to go with our waters.

The first round is exhibition. The “knights” have to do things like snag rings, hit targets, and knock down pins on stands. Children enjoy the first round. Most adults think of it as a good time to get snacks or use the loo.

Percival wins for the Dragons, and makes a circuit, helmet off, waving to the crowd, before the final against the Gryphons’ champion.

Their champion makes his circuit, and as he passes, I swear his eyes lock on Guinevere. She tenses slightly and I glance over.

“Shit,” she mutters.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“He saw me.”

“Who did, Du Lac?”

She nods.

“So… you know him?” I have a bad feeling about this.

“Knew. I knew him. We kind of dated…”

“You dated Lance Du Lac?”

“For about six months, before he was traded,” she says, her face tight.

Whoa.

The two knights line up on opposite sides of the center rail. In the final round, they run simultaneously, and whoever succeeds the quickest is the winner. The final challenge today is to snare a small gold ring suspended from a cable.

They start out, and Percival just narrowly edges out Lance. Gwen and I cheer, standing and clapping with the rest of the crowd.

“All right, Percival!” she exclaims. Lance rides past us again, and she pointedly does not look at him, still applauding Percival.

We sit back down and wait out the small interval for round two.

“What did he do?” I ask.

“Hmm?”

“Lance. How did he mess up?”

“Why do you think it was him?”

Because no man in his right mind would break up with you, Guinevere. And of course I place myself in the category of _not in his right mind._ Because clearly, I am not.

“Because you seem pretty unhappy that he saw you. You cheered extra hard for Percival. You know, basic clues.”

“He was too focused on his jousting career,” she says.

“Hmm,” I say. She’s not telling me something.

“That, and he couldn’t keep his willie out of other women when he was on the road.”

“There it is,” I say. Honestly. Cheating is vile anyway, but cheating on _her_ is just criminal. “Bastard. He is definitely my least favorite man in jousting now.”

Not that what _I’m_ doing to her is exactly noble, but I am always completely monogamous in my relationships. I am just a serial monogamist.

I also don’t want to think about that right now.

“Thank you for your display of blind loyalty,” she says, leaning over and kissing my cheek.

“How did you find out?”

“Oh, the usual way. I found a pair of knickers in his trouser pocket that didn’t belong to me.”

“Classy.”

“Yes. I’d been suspicious for a while, but had no proof. Then when I confronted him about it, he tried telling me that they were his sister’s!”

“Okay, that’s just… gross.”

“Not only that, but he doesn’t even _have_ a sister! So no matter which way you sliced it, it was bad. He was either a cheater, a liar, or a pervy creeper.”

“Sounds to me like he was all three,” I say.

She laughs.

Round two is when the man-to-man battles happen. It’s not like medieval jousting, though. No one dies. They don’t usually get hurt. The armor is made out of Kevlar and plastic (the same kind used for bike helmets and whatnot). The shields have sensors and the lances are not only designed to bend, but they will also break without splintering, if they break at all.

Eight competitors per side become four. Lance is eliminated in this round by Bedivere. Bedivere is defeated by Valiant in the semi-finals, and soon Percival is against Valiant in the finals.

“He should win handily. Valiant got lucky against Bedivere,” I say, leaning over towards Gwen, who is happily munching pink candyfloss on a paper tube. She had confessed a weakness for it, and I immediately bought some for her, because apparently I will do whatever she wants me to do, even if not directly asked.

More troubling information.

She offers me some, and I take a hunk. “Yeah, Bedivere’s grip slipped on his handle,” she says. I’m impressed that she noticed that.

I haven’t had candyfloss since I was a boy. The stuff is nothing but straight sugar and coloring. I need more.

As predicted, Percival defeats Valiant easily, nearly knocking him from his horse. They meet in the center to shake hands (it’s required), and I see Percival apologizing. I also see Valiant being a total dick about it.

The official steps in and issues Valiant an unsportsmanlike conduct penalty, adding insult to injury. Percival shrugs, and trots over to where we are. He catches my eye and nods.

“Come on,” I say, grabbing Gwen’s hand and pulling her from her seat, heading back to the stables before most people are even out of their seats.

 

xXx

 

We weave through the crowds and the press, making our way inside. I flash a card at the security guard outside the stables, and he lets us pass.

“Hey, Arthur,” he greets me.

“Bors,” I nod, clapping him on the shoulder as I pass.

“You’ve been here before,” Guinevere says.

“A few times, yeah,” I laugh. “Bors used to compete. Had an—”

“An injury, I remember. So now he works security?”

“Yeah, he says he doesn’t know anything apart from jousting and pounding people,” I say, looking around, blinking in the relative darkness of the stable. I spot Percival just walking in, leading his horse to his stall.

“Percival, well done, mate!” I exclaim when we get to him.

“Thanks,” he says, hugging me. He always takes his victories as if they are no big deal. It’s not an act at all, and it’s a big part of why he’s so popular.

“Percival, this is Guinevere Leodegrance. Guinevere, Percival Henderson,” I introduce them, and Gwen extends her hand.

“Gwen,” she says. I forget that she actually prefers Gwen because I prefer Guinevere.

“Nah, I’m a hugger, me,” Percival says, and leans down to hug her, engulfing her in his massive frame while she giggles in surprise. “Sorry I’m a bit smelly,” he apologizes.

“It’s all right,” she says. “Pleased to meet you.”

“You, too. Though I can’t imagine why you’re hanging around with _this_ bloke,” he laughs.

She shrugs. “Well, you know, he’s rich…” she starts, poking me in the ribs again.

Percival stares a moment. He knows that it’s a sensitive subject, and isn’t sure how to react to her teasing me about it. But I am laughing, so he relaxes.

“Good thing, too, because there’s not really much else there.” And he’s decided to join in.

“All right, if you lot are done having fun at my expense,” I interject.

Gwen leans up and kisses my cheek again, squeezing my hand in a friendly way.

“Gwen, would you like to meet my horse? I just got him Monday, but he’s great,” Percival asks.

“I’d love to,” she says, following him into the stall where Chestnut is getting rubbed down and drinking water from a trough.

I do have to say that they take great pains to make sure that the horses are well-tended.

Percival goes up to Chestnut’s massive head and talks softly to him. The horse lifts his head and nuzzles Percival a minute.

“Gwen,” he calls, motioning to her. She picks her way through the straw (she’s wisely worn her boots today) and in moments she’s talking to the horse, stroking his nose, charming him. Percival reaches over and takes a carrot from a bin and gives it to Gwen. She feeds it to Chestnut, laughing as his lips brush her hand.

I’m now jealous of a horse.

“He’s beautiful,” she says as I approach. “And huge, my goodness, I’ve never seen a horse so big!”

“Yeah, Coach said he saw him and knew he was made for me,” Percival tells us.

Some of the press are vying for his attention now. “Go ahead,” I tell him.

“So what happened to his old horse?” Gwen asks while Percival charms the press.

“He’ll be on a breeding farm now, working on making the next generation of jousting horses,” I say, waggling my eyebrows at her.

“Oh!” she laughs. “Sounds like a good retirement plan!”

“We should all be so lucky,” I chuckle.

Percival returns a few minutes later.

“Hey, Guinevere has a friend who is a big fan of yours,” I say.

Gwen smiles up at me, happy I remembered and broached the subject for her. It’s a smile I’d really like to see as often as possible.

“Do you, now?” he asks, addressing Gwen.

“Yes, my assistant Sefa. She knows all your stats and everything. Even knows your university record,” she tells him.

“Would she like a souvenir, maybe? I can sign something for her,” he offers.

“You wouldn’t mind?” Gwen asks.

“Not at all,” he answers. Gwen hands him her program and he fishes a black marker out of a leather satchel nearby.

“What’s her name? Sefa?” Percival asks, just holding the pen and program. Gwen nods. “What’s she like?” He tilts his head, looking down at Gwen.

“She’s very smart, and sweet. Pretty. She’s a Druid, if it matters.”

“It doesn’t. Does she have magic?”

It’s not an unexpected question. Not every Druid has magic nowadays. One time they did. But as the Druid people started intermingling – and intermarrying – with the non-Druid population, the level of magic any given Druid possesses can vary from nonexistent to extremely powerful. And of course there are non-Druids with magic, like Morgana, but they are rarer.

“Some,” Gwen shrugs. “She didn’t want to develop it,” she says, a trifle evasively, I think. “But she… senses things sometimes. Gets feelings.”

“Ah. Interesting. Have you met her, Arthur?” he asks me.

“No, mate, sorry. I can be of no help at all,” I say, holding my hands up.

Suddenly Percival smirks. He gives Gwen her program back, reaches to his waist, and yanks his tunic off over his head. I hear female gasps all around us and I roll my eyes.

Even I can admit that he is an impressive sight, though. I glance at Gwen, and, bless her heart, she’s trying not to look. But she peeks.

“Turn around,” he tells me. I turn around, and he lays the tunic across my back – it practically feels like a cape – and I feel him writing on it, using my back as a desk.

“Tell her I’m sorry that it smells like sweat and horse,” Percival says, handing Gwen the tunic.

“I’m sure that’ll just be a bonus for her,” Gwen says. Then she looks at what he’s written. “Is this seriously your mobile number?”

He just blushes, nods, and grins. “You never know,” he says quietly. “If she’s as nice as you say, well, I’m willing to take a shot if she’s brave enough to ring me up.”

Gwen folds the tunic neatly and drapes it over her arm.

“We should let you go. You stink,” I say.

“I’ve been jousting,” he shoots back. “What’s your excuse?”

“Nice meeting you, Percival,” Gwen says, waving.

“You, too. I won’t hug you again, don’t worry,” he laughs. “You either,” he tells me.

“Good. See you around, mate,” I say.

“Yeah. Tell your father hello.” I just nod.

“Father likes Percival,” I tell her on the way out. “Of course, _everyone_ likes Percival.” We walk out into the sunlight again. The crowds are significantly thinner now.

“He’s a likeable bloke, I will grant you that. I’ve heard people say that they think that his good-boy act is, well, an act. But it’s nice to see that it’s—”

“Gwen!”

A voice calls to her, and she sighs, her shoulders dropping.

Must be Lance.

She turns. “Hello, Lance,” she says politely.

He catches up to us now, and I feel Gwen squeeze my hand a little tighter, press a little closer. She doesn’t want to talk to him. Message received.

“Hey, I was hoping to catch you,” he says, his eyes flitting up to me for just a second. He’s unreasonably handsome up close and it’s irritating as hell.

Especially because I know how he treated her.

She says nothing, just waiting.

“Wanted to say hello,” he finally says.

“Hello,” she replies. “Lance, this is my boyfriend, Arthur Pendragon.”

Boyfriend? Score one for me!

“Hello,” I say. He offers his hand, and while I don’t really want to shake it, my upbringing takes over and I release Guinevere’s hand to briefly clasp his. “Bad luck with Bedivere, there,” I say, just poking a little. Then instead of taking Gwen’s hand back, I put my arm around her. Poking a little more.

“Yeah, well, it happens,” he shrugs, but his eyes are clouded. He doesn’t like to lose. On or off the field, from the looks of things. “But Valiant got him in the end.”

“Yes, and my mate Percival got Valiant, so there you go,” I say.

“You know Henderson?”

“Since we were boys.”

“Arthur just introduced me. He’s a great guy,” Gwen adds, slipping her arm around my waist now. “Very nice, completely unaffected by fame, looks like.”

Bloody hell, she’s good. Mental note: Do not get on her bad side.

Mental note to that mental note: You are not going to have a choice in 46 days.

“Um, yes, I’ve heard that about him. I figured it was all an act,” he says, looking a bit uncomfortable now.

“Not at all,” Gwen says. “In fact, he signed his tunic for Sefa. Took it right off his back.” She lifts her arm slightly, showing him the red tunic draped neatly over it.

“That’ll be nice for her,” Lance says absently. He doesn’t fucking care. “Well, um, it was nice seeing you. I need to… get back and… take care of…”

“Goodbye, Lance,” Gwen says. Lance looks like he wants to give her a hug. She stays locked to my side.

“Take care,” I say, letting Gwen steer me away now. I know Lance is watching us walk away, so we take about ten steps, and then I pause, kiss the top of her head, and continue on towards my car.

“Sorry, I… I kind of used you back there,” she tells me once we are in the car.

“I didn’t mind,” I admit. In fact, I’m rather pleased.

“So, it was okay that I called you my boyfriend?”

“Yes, it was,” I say, smiling at her. I reach over and touch her cheek with my finger, softly dragging. Then I start the car.

“Always an awkward conversation, that. You know, the deciding are we boyfriend/girlfriend?” she muses, leaning her head back against the headrest.

“Yeah,” I agree, chuckling. “It always sounds so juvenile. Someone needs to come up with better terminology. Or at least a way to say, ‘Hey, I don’t want you to date other blokes’ without sounding like a total twat.”

She laughs. “Yeah. Well, there’s always the patented method of slipping your intended a note that says _Do you like me? Check YES or NO._ ”

“Oh, my God…” I laugh. “I’ve actually done that…”

“No!” she gasps, laughing.

“I was 12, give me a break. And she checked _NO._ ”

“Her loss,” she says, smiling. She leans her head back again and closes her eyes.

“You all right?”

“Headache,” she tells me, not opening her eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. “Too much sun?”

“Too much bloody Lancelot. Wanker.”

“He wasn’t happy seeing you happy. That’s not cricket at all.”

She opens her eyes and looks at me, interested. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that even if you’re still carrying a torch for someone, you should want them to be happy. Even if it’s not with you.”

“Are you still carrying a torch for someone?” she asks quietly. We’re at a stoplight now, so I turn to look at her.

I hadn’t thought about Elena until the meeting with Godwin yesterday. She’s happily married. “No, I’m not,” I say. “Not anymore.” It slips out before I can stop it.

Now she knows that if I was, she extinguished that torch. The light turns green. She takes my hand and closes her eyes again, a small smile on her face.

I can’t tell if she dozes off or not, but when I pull up in front of her flat, she opens her eyes.

“Feeling any better?” I ask.

“Emotionally, yes, but I still have a headache,” she says.

“I was going to see if you wanted to grab some dinner, but…”

“Yeah, I’ll take a rain check on that, I think. All I want now is a couple of Tylenol and a hot bubble bath.”

Oh, God. Don’t picture it. Don’t picture it. Do not picture it.

“I completely understand,” I say. “Well, perhaps not the bubble bath part. Not my thing.”

She giggles and I start to get out. “You don’t have to get out. Just… come here,” she says.

I lean over and kiss her over the center console of my car, pulling her slightly towards me as my hands have minds of their own. One hand rests on the side of her neck, my thumb on her cheek, the other worms its way around her back.

Her lips part for me then and I stifle a groan, my tongue hungry for her as it chases hers, darting into the softness of her mouth. I feel her hand on my thigh, bracing herself, her other one clutching my shirt.

The hand on my thigh is a bit distracting, and I force myself to pull gently away, pecking her lips once more before retreating completely.

I exhale heavily. So does she. “That was really fun,” she says. “And the joust wasn’t bad, either,” she adds, chuckling. I laugh. She has such a surprisingly naughty sense of humor sometimes. “Call you tomorrow,” she says, reaching into the back seat for Percival’s tunic.

“Okay. Let me know what Sefa says about that on Monday.” I point to the tunic, smiling.

“Oh, I definitely will,” she promises. Then she leans over, kisses me quickly one last time, and goes to her door.

I wait until she’s safely inside before pulling away. Two weeks in and it’s already this difficult. Part of me wishes I’d never laid eyes on her. Most of me is completely smitten. Smitten is unfortunate. Smitten is dangerous. Smitten is _scary._ She continues to knock down my defenses and unknowingly disregard my rules. I continue to let her. If this keeps up, I’m going to be a complete mess by Day 60.

Hell, I’m a complete mess already. And I have no intention of stopping her. I wouldn’t even know how.


	16. Day 15

Sunday morning I sleep in later than I intend. I had another restless night, Guinevere in my brain again. Only this time my damnable conscience kept bringing Lance into the picture as well. I finally fell into an exhausted sleep around two, once I had convinced myself that I wasn’t as bad as him.

But now, in the light of day, I’m not so sure. He betrayed her. I’m betraying her. The only major difference is that he had a choice in the matter. I really don’t.

Doesn’t make me feel any better.

I shuffle to the kitchen in my boxers and pull out my carton of milk, intending to take a swig, and the smell nearly knocks me over. It was fine yesterday. I think. I hope.

But it _has_ been two weeks, what exactly was I expecting?

I have a glass of water instead, shuffle back to the bathroom, and take a quick shower.

Back to the market for me.

 

xXx

 

I walk in, grab a trolley, and decide I want some fruit. Maybe some apples. Hmm. Pears might be good as well, if I can catch them for the 15 seconds in which they are ripe.

I am perusing fruits, and suddenly something makes me look up. Guinevere is standing near the lettuce, inspecting heads, looking for the one she wants.

Hmm. Could be fun.

I watch her find the lettuce she likes, creeping closer, and then she moves over to the cauliflower.

As she reaches for one, I step close behind her, much closer than two weeks ago, and grasp the head of cauliflower she was reaching for.

“Allow me,” I say softly, close to her ear. Perhaps a little too close.

She jumps in surprise and laughs immediately, turning. “Wow, that is _so_ weird,” she says. “Do you know that almost this _exact_ thing happened to me two weeks ago?”

“Oh, really?” I say, handing her the cauliflower. “What happened?”

“I wound up dating the guy. So you’ll just have to piss off, because I have a boyfriend,” she says, grinning at me.

I laugh. “Hi,” I say, leaning down to kiss her hello. I don’t much care that we are in the produce department of the supermarket. An old lady glares at us. I ignore her.

“Hi, yourself,” she says. “Silly,” she adds, shaking her head at me.

“Feeling better?” I ask.

“Yes, much, thank you. Nothing some pancakes, some Tylenol, a nice hot bath, and my cozy bed couldn’t fix.”

“Pancakes?”

“You got a problem with pancakes?”

“Not at all,” I say, chuckling. “I just wasn’t expecting ‘pancakes’ to be part of the equation, that’s all.”

“I like pancakes. Come on, shop with me,” she says, pushing me back to my trolley.

We shop side by side, chatting. I reach things down for her. She gives me advice on things I _should_ be buying over what I _have_ been buying.

I stall in front of the array of cup-o-noodles. She’s watching me with interest, almost daring me to buy some.

I do love them. But at some point I should start eating like a grown man.

“Would you… maybe… show me what else… I could do with these?” The question comes out softly, haltingly, but to my mind it feels like it’s tumbled out before I could snatch it back in.

Her eyes light up and suddenly I feel better about having asked. “When?”

“Um, today? For lunch? At… my place, maybe? I mean, if you don’t have any other plans…” Why am I so shy all of a sudden? She’s officially my girlfriend now. This shouldn’t be difficult.

Of course, I don’t usually do the “at home” thing until _next_ week, so perhaps that’s it.

“Yes,” she says, smiling. Then she looks at my cart and frowns. “We need to go back and get some other things, though.”

“Um, okay…”

“And don’t get the kind with the cup. Get the kind in the packet. The little brick.” She points.

“What flavor?”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re not going to use it. Not today.” Suddenly she’s all business.

“Not today?”

“Arthur, I can think of two separate recipes that use these noodles just off the top of my head. One uses the flavor packet, the other doesn’t. The one we’re going to do today doesn’t. So you could get that bloody awful looking shrimp flavored one and it wouldn’t matter. But I usually go with chicken, because I’ll just toss the packet in if I make soup.”

“I’m not going to make soup,” I say, but I take the chicken flavor anyway.

“You say that now,” she says. There’s something mildly threatening in her tone.

“What?”

“Come on,” she marches away with her trolley. I follow. “Soup is easy, Arthur. You just throw things in a big pot of water and cook them till they’re soup.”

“You say that now,” I repeat back to her, chuckling.

I buy things I’ve never bought before. Snow pea pods. A bag of pre-shredded cabbage (I didn’t even know you could get such a thing). Water chestnuts. Rice wine vinegar.

“I’m done if you are,” she declares finally.

“I don’t know. _Am_ I done?” I ask.

“You’ve got everything I need you to have, but I didn’t know if you were done for you.”

I look in my cart. Milk. Bread. Beer. “Yeah, I think so.”

 

xXx

 

We decide that I should follow Guinevere to her flat so she can at least take care of her perishables and then she’ll follow me to my place.

She parks behind her building and has me follow her back there, where I can park in an empty spot that she said no one uses. I help her carry her bags and follow her up.

I guess I finally get to see her place. Of course, it’s been me that’s been preventing this, not her.

Her flat is very small and very tidy. If I saw it without knowing it was hers, I would be able to tell it was hers.

“It’s not much, but it’s mine,” she says, setting her bags down on a very small table. I place mine on the counter.

“It’s very nice,” I say.

“You’re just saying that,” she says, digging through for things that need refrigeration.

“No, I mean it. I like it,” I say, looking around a little. And I do mean it. I like her place.

“Hand me that bag, please,” she says. I hand her the bag. I peek out of the kitchen again and see a cozy living room with a couch, a small recliner, a television, and a small coffee table. There’s a door leading to a bathroom and another door leading to her bedroom. All I can see of her bedroom is a purple duvet.

“You can look around,” she tells me, catching me peeking.

“Maybe next time,” I say. “I’m getting hungry.”

She turns around. “Please tell me you have a large bowl.”

“What like a… a mixing bowl?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Okay.” She turns around and digs into a cupboard, withdrawing a large plastic bowl with a lid. Then she pauses and grabs some measuring cups without even asking me if I have those. Which is fine, because I don’t. “Let’s go,” she says, holding her hand out in an _after you_ gesture.

Alone in my car, I ponder some things. My rules: Blown.

Rule one: don’t get too close too soon. Too late.

Rule two: kissing. I kissed her on Day 7, which is okay. Open mouthed on Day 13. Usually I like a full fortnight before I do that. So, just a day or two off on that. Not terrible.

Rule three: my condo. Usually it’s Day 20 at the absolute earliest. For brunch or lunch. So fifty percent success there.

Rule four: the truth. This is where I keep getting into trouble. I’ve been more forthcoming with her in 15 days than I have with some of the others in the full 60. She knows about my issues with my Father. She knows about my issues with my identity. She knows (some) about my past. More than any other girl (apart from my sister), that’s for certain. She knows about Elena, for crying out loud. I never talk about my exes with the person I am currently dating.

Not only does she know _things_ about me, I’m finding that while I’m saying the same platitudes and compliments I always do, I actually _mean_ them this time. They’re not just platitudes. They’re not empty compliments meant to placate and appease. When I tell her she’s lovely, I really mean it. When I say I like her apartment, it’s because I really do. I compliment her without her fishing or hinting. Because she just doesn’t do that.

Words, true words, just fall from my mouth around her. She coaxes the truth out of me like it’s a timid rabbit and she’s holding a tasty carrot.

There are probably more broken rules, but we’re here now, and I probably should collect my scattered thoughts and remember how to be a good host.

 

xXx

 

“Wow, this is big,” she says, looking around as she walks in.

“That’s what she said.” It’s out before I could stop it. She laughs and follows me to the kitchen.

“You actually have counter space,” she muses, setting her bowl, measuring cups, and the one shopping bag she was carrying on the counter.

“Yeah, but I don’t make much use of it, obviously.”

I take her jacket (my hoodie), and hang it up for her. It started drizzling outside on the drive over, and I notice that the drizzle has blossomed into a full-on rain.

“Got in just in time,” I say, walking back into the kitchen.

“What’s that?” she asks.

“It’s really raining now. So we got inside just in time,” I repeat. I stop and stare for a moment.

She’s putting away my groceries.

“Um, you don’t have to do that,” I say, moving again to help. Take over. Attempt to take over.

“Sorry, I just started digging out what we need for lunch and it got away from me,” she says. “You are definitely a bachelor.”

“I know, it’s pitiful, right? Leon’s offered to help, you know, teach me some basic things, but we never get around to it.”

“Oh! I know what I’ve been going to ask you. Did Leon and Gwaine ever get in touch?” She starts looking through my cupboards now.

“What are you looking for?”

“Cutting board?”

“Um, do I have one? Oh, wait, here.” I reach over and pull out a block hidden in the cabinetry. It’s just a wooden plank tucked above a drawer.

“That’ll have to do,” she says, eyeing it suspiciously.

“It should be clean. I don’t think I’ve ever used it.”

“Right,” she laughs. “Even so, I think I’ll cook the chicken first and then cut it up.”

I dig out a frying pan for her. “So, yes, Gwaine did call Leon that same night,” I say. “What should I do?”

“Get some really hot water and put it in a pot.”

I do that. “And they went out last night, I guess. He texted me this morning. They had dinner and then went out dancing or something at Cenred’s.”

She turns from where she is cooking chicken. “Really? From what you’ve told me about Leon, he doesn’t seem the type to hang about in gay bars.”

“He isn’t. But Gwaine is.”

“Ah. Did he have fun?”

“Seemed to. I’m sure I’ll hear all about it tomorrow. I texted him quickly that I was with you, so I doubt he’ll call today.”

“Oh,” she smiles shyly and turns back to the chicken. It smells really good.

“What do I do with this water?”

She has me break the noodles up and put them in the water just to soften them some, and then gives me more instructions. I dump the cabbage into the bowl. I cut ends off of snow peas, cut the bigger ones in half, and put them in the bowl. I open and drain the water chestnuts and put them in the bowl. I put the sunflower kernels and cashews in the bowl.

This isn’t cooking; this is assembling. I can do this.

The chicken is done and she puts it on a plate and then into the fridge to cool a bit. Then she drains the softened noodles, carefully pouring the water off while holding the noodles back with a lid, since I don’t have a strainer or a… something she asked for that sounded like “calendar.”

“Paper and pencil?” she asks suddenly.

I go and grab them from my desk and hand them to her.

“Take those noodles and put them in the bowl,” she says.

“Yes, ma’am,” I tease, but I really don’t mind her telling me what to do.

She just snorts and keeps writing.

“Okay,” I say.

“Now mix all that up.”

“What with?”

“I don’t know, do you have a spoon, maybe? Or if your hands are clean, use those. That would probably be easiest, actually.”

“Really?” I make a face.

“Don’t be a baby,” she says. “Here, you do this, and I’ll mix.” She hands me the paper.

There are ingredients and measurements on it. Her handwriting is very neat and very pretty.

I can do this. Most of the ingredients are already out, because we had to buy them. Soy sauce, rice wine vinegar, lemon juice. Sugar. I have sugar somewhere.

I start measuring the ingredients. The soy sauce is sealed, so I pull the plastic tab to open it.

“Shit!” The little tab thing frees itself with a jerk, and I spill soy sauce on my shirt. Which is white.

“What?” she asks, looking up from the bowl.

“Soy sauce,” I turn.

“Oo. We need to get that right away or it’ll set. Take your shirt off,” she orders, setting the spoon down and holding her hand out.

I blindly follow orders, whipping my shirt off over my head. I find the spot again and offer her the shirt.

She’s staring at me. No. She’s _gaping_ at me. Eyes wide, mouth open. The lot.

I keep in shape. I basically have to, if I’m going to continue to pull birds every 60 days. I don’t make a big deal about it (not anymore, anyway), but yes, I am aware that I’m fit.

“Enjoying the view?” I smirk, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Oh. Sorry,” she says, blushing, flustered, and takes the shirt from me.

I just laugh and go in search of another shirt. Perhaps an old one this time, one that I won’t mind if I get food on.

When I return she’s got the stain soaking in a dish on the counter, as far away from the food as she can get.

“I found your laundry supplies. Impressed that you have bleach,” she says, not looking at me.

“You’re still blushing,” I tease.

She turns around. “Hey, I’ve caught you openly ogling me twice now, so you don’t get to say a bloody word!” she says, but she’s laughing, too.

“You were the one who told me to take off my shirt,” I remind her. She scowls and takes the chicken out of the fridge to cut up.

 

xXx

 

In the end, we’ve made an Asian chicken noodle salad. It’s called a salad, but it’s more like a cold casserole. The stuff with the soy sauce was the dressing. It’s really good, and Gwen tells me that it gets better when it sits for a bit and has a chance to marinate things.

We clean up the dishes and she hangs my now-clean shirt up to dry. It’s then that I realize I don’t want her to go yet. I don’t think she wants to go yet, either. I’m a bit tired from my bad night, but I want her to stay a bit.

“It’s still raining,” I say.

“Very astute of you.”

“No, I mean… you don’t have an umbrella or anything, so maybe you should stick around a bit.”

She looks at me. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I say. “We can find something stupid to watch on telly.” I take the dishtowel from her and lead her into the living room and my big screen TV. We sit on the couch, and she immediately cuddles against me, tucking her feet up under her. I don’t recall her taking her shoes off, but she must have done at some point.

I flip around and settle on the cricket match. “This okay?” I ask. She responds with a loud and dramatic yawn.

“Perhaps not. Let’s see… sharks? Aliens? Landscaping?”

“Landscaping works. Or sharks.”

I flip on the landscaping show, one of those where they completely redo someone’s back garden in a weekend, putting in stuff that no one really needs but they think they want. I always imagine the homeowners discovering how much work that fancy waterfall or exotic plant is to maintain and wind up scrapping it inside of a year.

I think I’ve become a bit of a pessimist. I also think that it’s probably a very normal side-effect of this curse.

She feels really good next to me. I shift slightly, and she snuggles closer, and before I know it she’s in my arms on the couch.

She’s soft and warm and nice to hold.

The next thing I am aware of is hearing an unfamiliar voice.

“…Chef William’s team is really going to have to hurry if they’re going to get that sugar-glass fire underneath the phoenix…”

What? I blink my eyes open, and the remote is now in Guinevere’s hand and she’s watching some cooking competition show with teams making really outrageous cakes. Apparently the theme is magical creatures, because I just heard them talking about a phoenix and right now the screen is showing a cake that appears to be a pair of cockatrices.

I fell asleep. I’m an idiot. I hope I didn’t say anything. I hope nothing… stirred.

I shift slightly. “Sorry,” I apologize. “I’m a terrible host.”

“It’s all right,” she says. “You were tired, I could tell. Did you not sleep well last night?”

“Not really, no,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” she says, but she doesn’t ask me what was troubling me. That’s good, because I likely would have told her.

“You like these shows?” I ask, reaching down for my glass of water on the table.

“Yes, they’re just fun to watch. Why, would you rather something else?” she asks, holding the remote out, taunting me with it.

“Well, yes, I wouldn’t mind at least checking the cricket score,” I say, reaching for the remote.

She moves it out of my grasp, giggling, and I try with the other hand. She moves it again. She’s quick.

“Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” I ask, reaching again, trying to grab the remote, her arm, trying to gain control of the TV again.

She yelps and laughs, diving away from me, and I dive after her without thinking. In moments she is trapped beneath me and our laughter is dying quickly.

I gently take the remote from her unresisting hand, drop it on the floor, and pounce, my lips claiming hers, mouth immediately open, kissing her like I’m starving for her.

She moans into my mouth and sucks on my lower lip, biting it softly.

“Oh,” I grunt, my resolve slipping. I will myself to gain control again, tearing my lips away. Only my lips are under her orders, not mine, and they simply move, kissing her jaw, down her neck. She angles her head up to allow me easier access.

“Arthur,” she whispers my name, her fingers tangling in my hair now. She smells amazing. Her skin is as sweet as her lips.

Her lips. I need those again. I kiss my way back up and find my target, exploring her mouth with my tongue, losing myself for a moment.

My hand is at her waist, and it’s starting to creep higher. And she’s not stopping me.

I need to stop myself. I _cannot_ do second base on Day 15, no matter how much I want to. No matter how much she seems to want me to.

Other parts of me are paying very close attention now as well, which means I definitely have to stop.

I tighten my fingers at her waist, thankful that my other hand is trapped beneath her. I’m not sure how it got there, but it’s stuck until she moves. I attempt to slow my over-eager lips, and eventually manage to gently break away.

She looks dazed and her lips are slightly swollen with my kisses. I want to dive back into them, but I resist.

“Too much?” she asks, her voice a whisper.

Bloody hell, how does she do that? Is there an LED screen on my forehead that I don’t know about?

“Almost,” I croak. I’m still lying on top of her. I should move. “Sorry,” I say. I apologize a lot, I’m finding.

“It’s okay,” she says, squirming a little. I move, making sure to retrieve the remote. “I know you’re trying not to go too fast.”

“Yeah,” I say, exhaling heavily. “It’s difficult for me, too,” I add.

“Then why? I’m not trying to push, just…”

“I know that,” I say. “And thank you for being so patient with me. I just… can’t explain it, really.”

“Can you try?” she asks, scooting over and taking my hand. She looks so earnest, so understanding, that I contemplate telling her.

No. I can’t tell her. I don’t honestly know what will happen if I tell. “I… don’t have the words,” I say. This is frustratingly true. Even if I were intending to tell her, I wouldn’t know how.

“Arthur,” she says, her voice gentle, “I really like you. You’re smart, and fun, and even though you can’t cook, you’re quite handsome. And fit, as I learned today.”

I laugh a little. She always seems to know what to say.

I wish I did.

“But whatever it is, it can’t possibly be as bad as you think,” she says, leaning her head on my shoulder. I don’t say anything. “Can it?” she lifts her head and looks at me.

“I don’t know. All I know is that I really like you, too, and I’m… I’m petrified that I’m going to mess up.” This is true. This is also inevitable. “I want to take the time to really get to know you before we do anything… more. Don’t get me wrong, I find you incredibly attractive and the old me would have had you at least six different ways by now…” I stop because I hear her gasp. I don’t know if it’s from shock or excitement. I don’t think I want to know. Not right now. “All I know is that I don’t want to hurt you, ever.”

“And you’re afraid you will?”

Yes. I know I will. I nod. “I know that me blowing hot and cold like this can’t be good for your ego, but trust me, when I pull away it’s not because I don’t find you attractive or don’t like you. It’s… kind of because I like you _too_ much… if that makes any sense…”

“A little.” She leans on my shoulder again. “If I didn’t like you as much as I do, I might have bailed by now.”

Here goes. “Can you continue to be patient with me? Because if this is too hard, you can…”

“I am happy to travel at your pace, Arthur,” she says, threading her fingers through mine now. “I’m going to give you shit about it, though, so just be prepared.”

I laugh now, and kiss her head. “I wouldn’t expect anything else. And if I can find a way to explain more, I will, all right?”

“All right,” she says. She lifts our joined hands and kisses my fingers. “I like your condo, Arthur. It’s much neater than I expected,” she says suddenly.

“I told you I clean,” I say. “Maybe next time I’ll give you the tour.”

“Oh, I looked around when I went to the loo earlier,” she says, and I laugh again.

We sit quietly, staring at the telly for a few minutes. A new program is on now, something about the history of ice cream.

“I didn’t see who won the cake competition,” she says.

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.”

She laughs.

“I want ice cream now,” I say, staring at the screen.

“It’s stopped raining,” she points out.

“Let’s go,” I say.

“I’ll take my own car,” she says. “I should go home after. Remove temptation, you know.” She smirks up at me now.

She’s probably right.

 

xXx

 

I am exhausted by nine that night, and flop into bed to watch TV. I am tired of losing myself in her kisses and beating myself up about it after. I am tired of feeling guilty for every good feeling I have about her. I am tired of denying myself happiness because it has to end.

I’m just tired.

But I have to press on, keep living this poor excuse of a life because it’s the path I’ve created for myself. The grave I’ve dug for myself.

I fall asleep with the television on and am granted a dreamless night for once.


	17. Day 16

I was right. I _have_ driven past Guinevere’s shop thousands of times. It’s on my route to one of our main contractors.

I noticed the shop on the way there, and so I decided that I would drop in and see the place on my way home. Since I’m passing. If it wasn’t already afternoon, I’d take her to lunch. Perhaps another time.

I walk in and a small bell attached to the door tinkles. I don’t see Guinevere, but a young woman who I assume is Sefa looks up from behind the display counter.

“Hello,” I say, smiling at her. Sefa is petite and pale, with long, medium brown hair pulled back away from her face. She’s pretty, in a wholesome kind of way, and she’s dressed in a flowing floral skirt and a blouse that’s kind of puffy and ruffled.

She looks very much like a child of the earth.

“You’re Arthur,” she says simply, angling her head at me.

“Yes, I am. And you’re Sefa. Pleasure to meet you,” I say, offering my hand.

She takes it and shakes my hand, and I notice she has a floral garland tattoo around each wrist. They are small, delicate, and actually quite pretty.

Druids have tattoos. It’s a part of their passage into adulthood. I’ve heard that they do it as a way of honoring their troubled heritage; enduring some pain to pay homage to all those that were persecuted and killed in the Great Purge 1500 years ago. They tattoo themselves with their magic as part of a ritual when they turn 17. Apparently it still hurts the same as it would with a needle. The design is up to the individual, but it must be in a mostly visible place. I’ve heard that the more tattoos a Druid has, the more powerful their magic is, but I don’t know if there’s truth to it or not. It makes sense, I guess, if one needs magic to create the things. Out of respect, non-Druids in Camelot generally do not get tattoos.

I remember Gwen saying that Sefa doesn’t have much magic but she can “sense” things. So if the number-of-tattoos rule is anything to go by, it would make sense that she only has these small bracelets.

I don’t know many Druids, sadly. There were a few at my school, and they were very nice, but I didn’t know them well. I think Hunith at the flower shop is a Druid. No. She’s a Celt. Her late husband was a Druid. Celts are kind of like Druids without the magic, and they were the first non-Druid community to intermingle with the Druids.

“Pleased to meet you as well,” Sefa says, holding my hand a moment longer. She blinks a few times. It looks like she’s trying to figure something out. Then she releases my hand. “I’ll tell Gwen you’re here,” she says, smiling at me again.

I hope she couldn’t “sense” my curse. That could get tricky.

“Arthur!” Gwen exclaims, smiling, coming out from the back of the shop. She’s wearing jeans and another plain, snug-fitting t-shirt, but she also has an apron on as well. She’s been working.

Her hair is in pigtails, and she looks unbelievably cute. Then our daughter from my dream flashes through my memory, and the resemblance threatens to knock me over. I keep my feet, though.

She comes out from behind the counter and kisses me carefully. She doesn’t hug me or touch me with her hands, which I now see are dirty. “I’m grubby, sorry,” she apologizes. “If I had known you were coming I would have cleaned up some,” she says, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. It leaves a black smudge on her temple, and I reach up to wipe it away with my thumb.

“Smudge,” I mutter, showing her my thumb. I reach down and wipe my thumb on the corner of her apron.

“Oh.” She looks at her hands and laughs. “So, to what do I owe this unexpected surprise?”

“I was passing by,” I say. “Turns out your shop is on my route to one of our contractors. I was dropping off the rec center plans, and thought I’d stop and say hello on my way back to the office. So, hello.”

“Oh,” she says, smiling. “Oh! Sefa!” she calls back to wherever the other girl had disappeared. “She has a question for you,” she says, grinning at me now.

“Is this about a certain tunic?” I ask.

“Yes. She nearly lost her mind when I gave it to her this morning,” she tells me.

“Yes?” Sefa appears and asks.

“You had a question for Arthur?”

“Oh! Yes,” she scurries away again, and returns with her new prized possession, holding it like it is something sacred. She points to the numbers Percival has written there. “Is that _really_ his mobile number?”

She can’t sense that, I guess. I look at it. “Yes, it is.” I pull out my mobile and scroll to his listing and show her that the numbers match.

“Oh, gods, he’s even in your contacts list,” she whispers, eyes wide. “So you’re really friends with him.”

“I’ve known him since I was about six, I think,” I say, putting my phone away.

“Tell him what you told me. About what you could sense about Percival just from his tunic,” Gwen prompts. She seems very excited. It’s wonderful to watch.

“Well, at the risk of sounding… strange…” she starts.

“Trust me, you have nothing to worry about with me. Strange doesn’t bother me in the least,” I say.

“I suppose not,” she says. “Your sister is Morgana Pendragon.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, Percival’s… essence… is all over this tunic,” she speaks softly and slowly, her fingers gently touching the fabric. “It tells me that he is a truly good and noble person. Like Gwen,” she says, smiling at her friend. “He’s… got a large heart and a gentle soul… which is sometimes at odds with the competitiveness of his chosen profession. He values… truth, and his true friends are his friends for life, unconditionally.” She looks straight at me now, but her eyes are just a bit vacant. “Like you.”

Okay, she definitely senses something about me. Her eyes are coming back into focus and I can see it there. Keep cool. She wouldn’t “out” me right now to Gwen. I can already tell that she’s not that kind of person.

“Make sure you tell him that when you call him,” I say, smiling at her. My only hope is to distract her. I like her, but she’s starting to worry me a little.

“ _When_ I call him?” she gasps, snapped fully out of the dreamlike state she was in a minute ago. “I can’t call him!”

“He wants you to call him,” I say. “At least that’s the impression I got. Guinevere?”

“Most definitely. He was very intrigued. And of course I said nothing but wonderful things about you,” Gwen says, helping.

I’m quite the little matchmaker, I realize. First Gwaine and Leon, now Percival and Sefa. I think I want my friends to be happy where I cannot be.

“You _told_ him things about me?” Sefa’s eyes are as wide as saucers now.

“Good things,” Gwen repeats. Sefa is now as red as the tunic in her arms.

“He’s in town till Thursday,” I say. “But he always has his mobile with him. They’ll be in Lot this weekend, though.”

“I know,” she says.

“Of course you do. Look, I know Percival. I think he’d really like you. He’s not a… dumb jock or someone out for fame and glory. People think how he behaves is an act, but it’s really not,” I say.

Sefa takes a deep breath, lays her hand on the tunic again, and closes her eyes. “I’ll think about it,” she sighs.

“Oh, good!” Gwen exclaims, excited.

The little bell on the door tinkles, and Sefa quickly tucks her tunic behind the counter before greeting the visitor.

“I had some more of that noodle salad for lunch,” I tell Guinevere softly. She pulls me to one side of the shop, out of the way so the customer can browse. “And you were right, it’s even better now.”

“Yeah, everything soaks up all the flavor from the dressing. I’m glad you like it,” she says.

“I’ll give you your bowl back when I can fit the salad in a smaller container.”

“You can keep it. I have two,” she says.

“I couldn’t…”

“Keep it,” she insists.

“Gwen?” Sefa calls.

“Be right there,” Gwen answers. “Work,” she shrugs.

“I should get back anyway,” I say.

“Have a good afternoon,” she says.

I lean down and kiss her goodbye. “You, too,” I say softly, touching my nose to hers just briefly. “Sefa, it was lovely finally meeting you,” I call, waving on my way out.

Outside, the image of my future self flashes through my brain. I’m old, lonely, alone, and pathetic. I’m in a chair, looking haggard, clutching a lidded plastic bowl to my chest.

This is bad.


	18. Day 17

Between my revelation Sunday night and the vision of my pathetic future self yesterday, I've come to a decision. Since it seems that I'm doomed to be miserable no matter what I do, I may as well enjoy myself with Guinevere while I have her. If I just give up and don't find a new girl after Guinevere's Day 60 and resign myself to being lonely and impotent, I'll be miserable. If I find a new girl after Guinevere, I'll still be miserable, because the new girl won't be Guinevere. So I'm going to carpe myself some diem for the next 43 days, at least, and try not to think about the fact that this is going to break Guinevere's heart almost as much as it is going to break mine.

That's going to be the hard part: Not thinking about how this is going to affect her. Especially because while I know how I feel (even though I can't admit it to myself), I don't know how deeply she feels for me.

"Arthur? You all right, mate?" Leon's voice brings me back down to earth. I've been staring into space for I don't know how long.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. What's up?"

"I've got these tickets," he says, showing me four tickets fanned out in his hand. "The Camelot Symphony Orchestra is doing an outdoor concert at Aithusa Park tomorrow night. Gwaine and I were going to go, and we were wondering if you and Gwen wanted to join us."

"I think it sounds good, but I'll have to ask Guinevere," I say.

"Let me know."

"Is it one of those deals where people lounge on blankets in the grass and drink wine?" I ask.

"Sure is," he says, grinning.

"Well, as long as the weather is good," I say, checking the forecast on my phone. It's been rainy lately.

"Supposed to clear out by noon today," he says. "Call Gwen." He strolls out.

I decide to text her first. I didn't get a chance to talk to her much last night. We kept missing each other. She was doing laundry. I kept getting interrupted by my father throughout the night, as he decided to buy himself an iPad recently and also decided that I was his personal tech support.

_A: You busy?_

While I wait for her to reply, I check my emails. So much spam. We need a better filter.

_G: I have a few minutes. What can I do for you?_

_A: What are you doing tomorrow night?_

_G: Going somewhere with you, sounds like._

I smile, and decide to call her instead of texting.

"Hello there," she answers.

"Hey. Leon has tickets to that symphony concert at the park tomorrow. Wants to know if we want to double with him and Gwaine."

"That sounds like it could be very fun. Entertaining, at least," she laughs.

"Okay, good. I'll tell Leon. He seemed like he really wanted us to come."

"I can't wait to meet him," she says. That's right, she hasn't met Leon yet, only Gwaine.

I pause. Should I ask? I have to know. "Um…"

"What is it, Arthur?" she asks softly.

"Are you alone? Like out of earshot?"

"Yes…" she answers haltingly, not sure where I'm going.

"I just have a question. And it's not 'What are you wearing,' I promise," I say, chuckling.

"Oh, okay," she says, laughing, relieved. "For a minute there I thought…"

"No. Well… no. Not at work," I tease.

"What?" she exclaims.

"Honestly, I've never done that." Focus, Arthur. This is not the time to ponder phone sex. "But anyway."

"Yes, your question."

"Did Sefa… say anything about me yesterday after I left? You know, like how she could read Percival from his tunic, and like how you said that Catrina's PA made her skin crawl. I was just wondering…"

"Um, she did, actually," she answers. "Hang on." I hear her tell Sefa that she's stepping outside for a minute or two.

This is not good. But she did just agree to go on a date tomorrow night, and she's talking to me like she always does, so now I'm really puzzled.

"I know I said she couldn't hear me, but it just feels less… strange, I guess, to go completely out of earshot. Especially because I don't know if she'll mind me telling you what she said. She didn't specify."

"I'm dying over here," I say, trying not to freak out.

"Don't worry, she really didn't tell me anything that I didn't already know," she says.

"Oh," I say, slightly surprised.

"She said that while on the surface you are cheerful and friendly, there is sadness in you. Um… trying to remember exactly… that there is a black spot on your heart and it weighs you down."

"I suppose that makes sense," I say. It does. And it's vague enough for me to relax somewhat.

"I told her that I knew you had some issues you were working through."

"Ah. Anything else?"

"She said that you have a very good heart, even with the weight on it, and that you struggle with who you want to be versus who you think you _should_ be. Which I also knew."

Bloody hell. I think I need to stay away from Sefa before she figures anything else out. "She's quite good," I say. "But she didn't tell you that you should break up with me or anything, did she?"

"No," she laughs. "She likes you. She did have to make sure that I wasn't just with you to try and 'fix' you." I can practically hear her eyes rolling. "I was like, 'you know I don't do that.'"

"Well, that's good," I say. "That never works, anyway."

"Right. So I'm not going to try and fix you, but I promised to be patient with you, and I still stand by that," she says softly. "And if you ever need anything…"

"I know," I say, smiling sadly. "Thank you."

"You're welcome.”

“I thought Sefa was very nice, by the way," I say. "I really hope she calls Percival, because they seem very well suited to each other. Hey, do you think if Sefa doesn't pluck up the courage to call Percival, would she mind if you gave me her number to give to him?"

"Oh, my God, Arthur, you are such a little matchmaker," she laughs. "I love it…"

"What? I just want my friends to be happy."

"It's very sweet. And we'll give Sefa a week. If she hasn't called him by next Tuesday, I'll give you her number for him."

"Brilliant. I should let you get back to work."

"Do you have lunch plans today?" she asks.

"I have a meeting, actually," I say, frowning. I look over my schedule. "I can pencil you in for Friday," I tell her in my business voice.

"Pencil me in, then," she says. "Do you know what time the concert is tomorrow?"

"No, not yet. I'll find out and let you know."

"Okay. Talk to you later," she says.

"All right. Don't work too hard."

Leon is excited that we're able to join them. He's as excited to meet Gwen as she is to meet him.

I'm excited for them to meet as well, but I know he's going to love her, which also means he's going to be giving me his opinions.

 _Don't let this one go, Arthur_ , he's going to say. _I really like her. I think out of all the girls you've dated, she's my favorite,_ he's going to say. _What the fuck were you thinking, breaking up with her? Are you insane?_ he's going to ask.

He's going to be correct on all counts, and I'm not going to know what to tell him.


	19. Day 18

Of course Guinevere and Leon immediately become best friends. She fusses over his "coppery brown" curls and "bashful" smile; he gushes over her outfit and how she's "petite and curvy" all at once. I think he even called her "fierce" at one point. And Gwaine is, well, Gwaine, insisting on calling her "Chickadee" again and kissing her hand instead of shaking it or even giving her a hug.

I'm in way over my head with this group. I'm not nearly fabulous enough.

Leon's brought a large red blanket and Gwen and I have put together a picnic basket with cheese and crackers and grapes and two bottles of wine. She did the food; I bought the wine. Gwaine is apparently contributing his personality.

We pick our way through the sparse crowd. We arrived intentionally early, and find a nice flat spot in the center.

"What are they performing?" Gwen asks.

"Beethoven's… something," Leon says, spreading the blanket out. She bends and helps him. "I'll go see if I can find a program."

"So who does Leon know in the symphony that he got free tickets?" Gwen asks, sitting down on the blanket. We got fortunate with the weather. When the rain stopped, it became unseasonably warm, and it's a lovely night. Guinevere still has my hoodie along with, though.

"His aunt. Don't ask me what she plays, I have no idea," I say.

"Cello," Gwaine informs us. He's already lounging on the blanket with his shoes off. Something tells me that he's the kind of guy who just makes himself at home wherever he is. I kind of admire his self-assured ease. Usually the only time I can fully relax is when I am alone, but I think Guinevere is changing that. I was able to fall asleep with her sitting right there on Sunday, something that never would have happened before.

That's right: I'm supposed to be enjoying myself and not dwelling on things. So I make myself comfortable on the blanket opposite Gwaine while Gwen fusses with the basket.

"Should have brought some pillows," Gwaine comments, crossing his arms behind his head, grinning cheekily at a group of middle-aged women who slow down and give him thinly-veiled appraisals with their eyes.

"Bunch of cougars," he chuckles once they've gone. "If they only knew…"

Gwen laughs and pulls one bottle of wine out. Gwaine lifts it from her hands. "I've got mine, what are you lot having?" he asks.

Leon returns with a program then. He leans over and snatches the bottle from Gwaine's hands and passes it back to Gwen.

"You have to share," he says, chastising mildly. He plunks down right next to Gwaine and flips through the program. "Beethoven's Symphony Number Six," he declares. "The 'Pastorale.'"

"Well, that seems appropriate for an outdoor spring concert," Gwen says. I'm about to reach for the wine bottle before she stabs someone (likely herself) with that corkscrew, but Gwaine grabs it again.

"Hey!" Gwen protests.

"Relax, I'm just opening it before we have to take you to the ER," he says. "Leave this to the professional, Chickadee."

"Professional as in food service professional, or professional as in alcoholic?" she asks, smirking at him.

He opens the bottle with a graceful flourish and scoots over to pour. "Oh! You wound me!" he declares dramatically, but doesn't actually answer her question. Then he winks at her.

"Hey Leon, some babes were checking out your date before," I say, leaning back slightly to look over at Leon.

"Babes?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Bunch of middle-aged Mums," I laugh. "But they were giving him a look, all right."

"You didn't escape their attention, either, there, mate," Gwaine tells me, handing me a glass. Then he reaches for the plate of cheese and is about to offer some to Gwen.

"Gwaine, stop being a waiter and sit down," Leon says mildly.

"Yes, dear," Gwaine answers, biting back his laughter. He takes some food for himself and settles back in beside Leon.

They've really hit it off, I notice. They seem very comfortable in the short time they've been seeing each other. It probably helps that they sort of knew one another before.

The crowd has filled in quite a bit, and I'm glad we made the effort to get here early. The musicians are drifting on stage, and Leon points out his aunt for us. She's tall, like he is, with a mass of ginger hair that makes her rather easy to spot.

We snack, we drink, we chat. Gwaine and Leon are fascinated by Guinevere's business, and she shows them her ring, which they declare "amazing" and "fabulous."

"The silver came from a ring my father used to wear all the time," she says, putting it back on her finger. "It was just a thick band and it was much too big for me. But I wanted a remembrance of him, so I took it and made it into something better suited for me."

I didn't know this. I never would have thought about taking an old piece of jewelry and making it into something else. I guess I always figured that once it was made, it was made.

"That's really cool that you could do that," Gwaine says. He pulls out his necklace and shows her a plain gold ring on the chain with some other things. "This was my dad's. I'm not as creative as you, so I just did this," he chuckles.

"Well, we must go with our strengths," she says smiling. "For example, I, apparently, am hopeless at opening a bottle of wine." She lifts her glass and clinks it to Gwaine's and they each take a sip.

The conductor strides out, so the music is going to start soon. The crowd applauds politely, quieting down, and people start settling in to listen.

I decide to pull Guinevere into my arms, half-sitting, half-lying together on the blanket. I'm trying to live in the moment here, and in this moment, I want to hold her while I listen to the music.

"You're right, Gwaine. We should have brought pillows," I say, attempting to wad up my jacket into a makeshift pillow while Gwen giggles.

"I'm quite comfortable," she says, smiling up at me. I kiss her forehead and find a position that is fairly comfortable just as the music starts.

Then my phone buzzes. I ignore it. A minute later, it buzzes again.

"Are you enjoying those vibrations, or are you going to check that?" Gwen asks.

I sigh and shift slightly to pull my phone out. "…The heck?"

"What is it?" she asks.

"Father is attempting to text me."

"This should be good," Leon says. "What does he say?"

I check it. "He says 'w ampersand,' and then 'm-n, wer,'" I laugh. "Now he's calling," I sigh.

I decline the call and reply to his text. _I'm at a concert. Practice your texting skills on some other victim._

Before I put my phone away, I make a decision. Guinevere is still sitting in my arms, leaning against me. It's still light enough out, so I fire up the camera and press the button to make the lens face towards us. I scoot down to get both our faces on the screen, and take a picture.

"Aw, that turned out good," Guinevere says when I scroll back to it. "I'd like a copy."

"Um, sure, I'll send it to you," I say.

"You don't have to do that," she says, reaching for her mobile now.

"Huh?"

"We have the same brand, Arthur. All we have to do is touch them together and I'll get it," she says, lifting her phone to mine.

"Yeah, Arthur, all you have to do is _touch them together_ and she'll _get it,_ " Gwaine says, his voice dripping with implication.

Gwen nearly falls over laughing. I flop back, laughing as well, my hand over my face. Even the usually-stoic Leon has his hand over his mouth and is shaking with laughter.

People around us are shushing us now.

I sit back up. "Sorry," I whisper. I set the photo I just took as her contact image in my phone. Then I notice she's doing the same.

So we have matching contact photos in our phones. I'm not sure how I feel about that.

The performance is good. It's a nice piece that I'm only vaguely familiar with. The best part is sitting with Guinevere the whole time. I don't know how I keep forgetting how nicely she fits against me. She's thin but not skinny, so I'm not getting jabbed with bony elbows. And she’s small enough that I don't even really notice her slight weight against me. She's just soft and warm and perfect. I don't even mind when her hair blows in my face, because it smells really good. And she wore it down for me.

I kiss the top of her head occasionally. She threads her fingers through mine and rests our joined hands on her thigh. The air grows cool and she grabs her (my) hoodie and lays it over herself like a blanket instead of putting it on.

Beside us, Leon is sitting up and Gwaine is lying beside him, using Leon's thigh as a pillow. Leon occasionally feeds him grapes. They look quite content.

I feel quite content. I lean down and kiss Guinevere's temple.

"You're very relaxed this evening," she leans up and says into my ear.

Of course she noticed. "That means it's working," I tell her.

"What is? You take something?"

I laugh. "No. I'm just trying not to worry about everything so much."

"Well, that's good. Because you know you don't have anything to worry about with me, right?" she asks, turning slightly to look up at me.

Of course I know that. That's quite a large part of the problem that I'm _not supposed to be thinking about._

She looks so lovely in the dim light with her brown eyes gazing up at me while the music washes over us. So I lean down and kiss her.

I feel her slight sigh as my lips first brush, then softly press against hers, and my arms instinctively tighten, holding her closer.

Just as I am about to deepen the kiss, coax her lips apart, I feel something hit my shoulder.

"What the…?" I feel it again, on my elbow.

Leon and Gwaine are pelting us with grapes. Guinevere starts giggling, burying her head in my shoulder to hide from the assault. She picks a grape from my sleeve and eats it. Then she holds the hoodie up as a shield.

I throw one back at them. "How old are you two, twelve? Honestly," I say. Then I throw another one. Gwaine catches it in his mouth and eats it. I'm a little impressed.

"Wait till you get home to do that," Gwaine says.

"And it's rude to tell secrets," Leon adds.

People are shushing us again.

"We were just having a little chat," I lean over and say, quietly now. "Nothing that need concern either of you two delinquents."

"Hey!" Leon protests, but Gwaine just laughs.

"Didn't look like chatting to me, mate," he says.

"Okay, well, it started out that way. Now shut it before we get tossed out."

We shift a little, trying to find a new comfortable position. We wind up with me sitting up and her leaning back against me, sitting between my legs. Again, more comfortable for her than for me, but at least this way having a snog is less tempting. Theoretically.

I'm getting to the point where every time I see her, all I want to do is kiss her. Going to have to watch that.

xXx

"So what now?" Gwaine asks as we walk back to our cars.

"Um, some of us have to work tomorrow," I say.

"Hey, I work. I probably work harder than you lot. Well, maybe not you, Chickie," Gwaine says.

"He's right. You two sit on your bums all day drawing pictures. He's on his feet, bringing food to mostly ungrateful customers with a smile on his face," Guinevere chimes in.

"I don't sit on my bum all day!" I exclaim, and Leon grumbles his agreement. "But you're right, you do work harder than we do," I sigh. "In any case, I'm not up for any further revelry this evening."

"Don't let us stop you, though," Gwen says.

"Leon, you up for it?" Gwaine asks.

"Depends on what 'it' is," he says.

"Here," I say, pulling the second bottle of wine out of the basket in my hand. We never opened it. I hand it to Gwaine.

"Hey, thanks, mate. Fancy a nightcap?" he asks Leon.

"Hmm…" Leon pauses by the cars, trying to decide.

"Leon, it was great to finally meet you," Gwen says, hugging him. "And Gwaine, always a pleasure… well, it's always interesting, anyway," she teases, hugging him now.

"Yes, this was fun," Leon says. "Gwen, keep him in line, now," he adds, nodding at me.

"I think you're the one with your hands full, there, mate," I say. "Gwaine. Be good. If you can't be good, be careful."

Gwaine laughs and shakes my hand. "I assume I will see you around the restaurant."

"Of course," I say. "Leon, see you tomorrow."

"Yeah." He pulls me closer when he shakes my hand. "Don't throw this one away, mate. She's just what you need."

"I know she is," I say, trying very hard to ignore the sharp pain in my chest. Leon releases my hand. "All right, you two do what you want. I'm taking Guinevere home."

"Going to pick up where you left off?" Gwaine calls as we get in the car.

"I know you're just going to take me home," Gwen says quietly once we're in the car.

"Sorry," I say. I pull the car out of the space and follow the slow line of cars heading away from the park.

"Don't apologize," she says. "I understand now."

Do you?

"Well, it doesn't mean you won't get a goodnight kiss," I say, reaching over for her hand.

"It better not," she says. "Your hands are always so warm," she adds, squeezing my hand.

"You just think that because your hands are always cold," I say.

"Probably," she chuckles. "So, tomorrow…"

"Is Thursday," I finish for her.

"Yes. But I think you need a private miniature golf lesson."

"More mini golf?"

"I like golf," she says. "I'll actually help you this time, too."

"Yes, I gathered that from your 'private lesson' comment," I chuckle.

"So?"

"Sure, why not? It's not like you don't know what you're getting yourself into," I say, pulling into the small lot behind her building like I did Sunday. "This okay?"

"Yeah, I was going to tell you that you could park back here. No one uses this space. There are some empty spots in this building, so there are some vacant parking places."

We climb out of the car and I pull the basket out of the back. It's quite light now that it's empty. Guinevere takes it from me and sets it down on the pavement next to my car.

I lean back against the car and she steps forward, standing between my feet, leaning against me. My arms wrap around her automatically.

"Tonight was fun," she says, her head resting on my chest. "Leon and Gwaine are great."

"Yeah," I agree. Leon's parting words to me float back again, and I swat them away. "I hope they can make a go of it. Leon deserves some happiness, and he needs someone like Gwaine to loosen him up a little," I chuckle.

"And how about you?" she asks, lifting her head to look up at me, her chin resting on my chest.

"Gwaine's not my type," I deadpan.

She rolls her eyes. "You know what I mean. I liked this relaxed Arthur tonight. I hope to see him more often."

"I'll try to keep him around," I say, leaning down now. Her arms come up around my neck and she meets my lips with hers. We do indeed pick up where we left off at the concert, because our tongues are already sparring, our hands clutching, our bodies pressing.

She's just so sweet. My hand comes up and delves into her wonderful curls, my fingers finally reveling in their coarse-soft texture. I suck at her lower lip, nipping it just lightly, and she whimpers softly.

Her fingers are doing some traveling of their own. One is threading through my hair at the nape of my neck, and it feels distractingly good. Her other hand is sliding up my chest, coming to rest at my shoulder, where she clutches my shirt in her fist.

She lifts up on tiptoe, increasing the pressure, and her body slides against mine in a very dangerous way.

"Oh," I grunt, pulling my lips away as gently as I can. "Wow."

"Sorry," she exhales. "Got carried away."

"Me too, almost," I say, acutely aware of the fact that she can probably feel how her getting carried away has affected me physically. She doesn't seem troubled by it, so I just continue to pretend it's not pressing against her stomach.

"I should go up," she says, but she doesn't move.

"Probably would be a… safe idea," I say.

She snorts a laugh. "Safe. Right." She slides her hands on my chest. "Tomorrow. Mini golf."

"Yes, ma'am," I nod.

She stares up at me for a moment, still not going anywhere. I certainly can't push her away, so I just wait.

"One more?" she asks.

I groan. "What the hell," I say, dropping my head to meet her upturned face once more.


	20. Day 19

I feel like I should be on a first-name basis with the bloke selling tickets at Citadel. I think I’ve been here more in these past two and a half weeks than I’ve been in the past two and a half years.

Okay, so we’ve only been here three times, but it’s been in a condensed time frame.

He gives us a score card and we once again choose balls and clubs. Guinevere chooses mint green this time, but I stick with red.

Luckily, it’s a bit cool and windy this evening, so they’re not busy. Gwen looks extra cold, but she’s got a sweatshirt on under the purloined hoodie, and she’s at least pretending that she’s not freezing.

No ice cream tonight.

She steps up. “Now watch me,” she instructs. “I’m not wearing anything low-cut tonight, so you should be able to pay attention.”

I laugh and watch her. I would watch her do just about anything, honestly. She swings and hits the ball smoothly, and it rolls down the green and through the little castle, obediently coasting to a stop close to the hole. Again.

“Now you,” she says, stepping back.

I walk up, place my ball, and line up to hit. I think I’m standing like she was, but I’m not sure. Here goes.

I hit the ball and it veers wide, missing the ramp and bouncing back to me. Again. I look up. “Okay, what did I do wrong?”

“What did you do right?” she giggles. “First, your hands.” She replaces my ball then shows me how her hands are. “Like this.”

“You don’t have to do that cross-finger thing?” I ask. She’s prying at my fingers, trying to move my hands.

“No. Loosen your grip, will you? You’re not trying to strangle it.”

I relax my hands some, and she manages to get them in line.

“Try now,” she says. I step up again. “Wait.” She steps behind me and shoves at my shoulders. “You’re crooked. Relax, you’re all tensed up.” She grabs me and shakes me and all it does is make me laugh.

“Good, you’re laughing, so you’re relaxed,” she peeks around my shoulder and grins at me. Then she kicks my feet apart with her little boot. “Go.”

I go. I wimp out. It goes up the ramp, nice and straight, but rolls back down because I didn’t hit it hard enough.

“Wimpy,” she sings quietly behind me.

“Hush, you. We’re not keeping score this time, are we?”

“Haven’t decided yet. But some people are coming, so you’d better hit.”

I hit. It goes much better, but she is still closer to the hole.

We go on, Guinevere helping me each time, occasionally standing behind me and guiding my arms with hers. I’m sure it’s awkward for her because of the size difference, but I have been rather enjoying it.

“Oh, Sefa called Percival last night,” she says. “Did he tell you?”

“No! I’m surprised it took _you_ this long to tell me!” I exclaim. “How did it go?”

She hits her ball. “I believe her exact words were, ‘He was beautiful.’”

I chuckle. That does sound like her. “So they had a nice chat, then?”

“Yes, very. Shoulders,” she reminds me. “Remember, hit it nice and smooth and easy. You don’t need to abuse it. Anyway, she said they talked for quite a while. Like that first night you and I talked on the phone.” She smiles at me.

“Did she send him a photo of herself so he could see what she looked like at least?”

“She told me that he didn’t ask. Nice shot, by the way. See if you can do it again.”

“He didn’t ask?”

“No, and she wouldn’t offer, because that’s not how she is. She said that he told her that he liked her voice and that he thought her name was pretty and unique. She didn’t tell me everything that they talked about, but she did say they’re planning to meet in person when he’s in town again.”

“Good,” I say. “It sounds like they’re off to a good start.” I sink my ball from six feet away. I’m usually lucky if I sink it from six inches away, so this is worth celebrating.

“Nice!” she exclaims, and then squeals when I pick her up and spin her around. “Arthur!”

I set her on her feet and kiss her. A little longer than I probably should.

“Wow, what do I get if you get a hole in one?” she gasps, laughing.

“Uh…” Once again, she’s rendered me speechless.

“You don’t have to answer that,” she says, smiling at me now. “Come on, we’re almost done, and I’m cold. Well, less so, now…”

I have some trouble with the dragon hole which may or may not have been intentional. She comes around behind me again, and I can feel the softness of her breasts pressed against my back even through the two sweatshirts, and her strong slender hands are gentle and sure on my arms.

“Just easy… like a pendulum,” she says quietly behind me.

She releases my arms and steps back so I can hit. I hit, and my ball takes a rather acceptable route, landing far from the hole, but at least it’s still on the green this time.

When I turn to look at her, she’s slightly flushed.

We finish our round and I usher her inside the building to warm up a bit. She looks very cold now, and I wrap my arm around her to try to warm her up. What I really want to do is just pull her into my arms and warm her up in a much more enjoyable way, but I resist, enjoying the feel of her small body against mine.

“You know, I’m kind of disappointed that you didn’t get another hole in one,” I say, peering over at the snack bar to see if they have hot cocoa.

“Why is that?” she asks, sitting at a table.

“I wanted to see your little celebration dance again, obviously,” I say, grinning at her now. She blushes and looks down, slightly embarrassed. Then she peeks up at me, grins, and bites her lower lip.

She’s flirting again. She really shouldn’t do that to me. I awkwardly clear my throat. “Um, would you like some hot cocoa?”

“I would love some, thanks,” she says.

“Be right back. Don’t let anyone chat you up this time,” I tell her. I hear her laughter behind me as I walk over to the snack bar.

I order two cocoas, not expecting anything spectacular. I don’t like coffee and only occasionally drink tea. Cocoa is my hot beverage of choice, and, as a result, I’ve become somewhat of a cocoa snob. I don’t buy the kind in the packets. I’ll drop more money on the fancy stuff in the can because it’s just better.

So fun center snack bar cocoa does not give me much hope.

Guinevere does not have any company when I return, thankfully, and she smiles sweetly at me as I approach. She has a wonderful smile. I love how it plumps out her cheekbones and crinkles the corners of her eyes. It’s probably a good thing my hands are full or I’d reach down and caress her smiling cheek.

“Here we are,” I say, handing hers over. She immediately holds it with both hands, warming them on the cup.

I take a sip. It’s terrible. It’s thin, has too much sugar and not enough chocolate.

“Ugh,” she makes a face.

“I know,” I agree.

She takes another sip. “It’s hot, though.”

“Thank you for teaching me how to mini golf,” I say. “I had fun.”

“You’re welcome. I had fun, too. You were a good student,” she says.

“I shouldn’t have been such a good student,” I say quietly.

“Why not?”

“Because I liked it when you would stand behind me and put your arms around me to help,” I admit. I’m surprised she hadn’t figured that out.

“Yeah, maybe you should have pretended to need more help,” she says, and I realize that she liked the same thing.

We stare a moment. I clear my throat. “Do you play regular golf as well?”

She looks down at her cup. “Yeah. My dad taught both Elyan and me when we were kids. We’d all go out together.”

“That’s nice,” I say. “Sounds fun.” Oh good, a safe topic.

“I think it was his way of saving on a babysitter,” she chuckles. “He loved golf. After Mum died, he still wanted to go out, but he didn’t want to get a sitter for us, so he just decided that we would come with.”

“Sounds to me more like he wanted to golf but he wanted to spend time with you as well,” I say. “Just an outsider’s perspective,” I add with a shrug.

“Huh. You’re probably right. I never thought of it that way,” she says.

“Maybe… after your mum died, he realized that he should try to spend as much time as possible with the two of you because you never know how much time you have.”

Except for me. I know exactly how much time I have, at least with her.

“Maybe,” she admits softly. “But that’s how I learned to golf.”

“Are you any good?”

She shrugs. “I guess. I don’t get to go out as much as I would like anymore. What with the shop and everything. I also don’t like to go when it’s cold out,” she chuckles. She’s just picking at her cup, not really drinking it. I abandoned mine after two sips.

“You don’t have to finish that if you don’t want to. I won’t be insulted,” I say. “It’s bloody awful.”

She laughs. “Let’s go, then.”

I crank the heat in the car for her, and by the time we get back to her place it’s plenty warm. A little too much so for me, but she seems content, so I leave it warm.

Raindrops start dotting the windshield when I park, and she sighs. “More rain.”

“It’s still April, for a few more hours, anyway.” Tomorrow is the first day of May. Not that the weather’s going to improve much.

“Yes, what should I expect from spring in Camelot, right?” she asks. “Lunch tomorrow, right?”

“Yes. Leon and I ate at the Rising Sun today, though, so could we go somewhere else? I don’t know if I can take another lunch with Gwaine,” I say.

“Sure, wherever. Do you like Stone Bowl?”

“Yeah, that’s right near my office, actually. We can go there.”

“12:30 again?”

Why do I have the feeling we’re both stalling?

“Sounds good to me.”

“I suppose I should go up before it starts raining harder,” she says after a moment. It’s still only sprinkling out.

“I could pull the car closer to the door, if you like.”

She starts leaning towards me. “Maybe, in a few minutes.”

I meet her halfway and close my lips softly over hers, trying to go slow, to savor her a little.

Then I feel her scoot a little closer and lean into me more, and her tongue slips between my lips, which have already begun to part. My fingers brush her cheek as my hand settles on the side of her neck. Her lips are so soft. Her skin is so soft.

The front seat of my car is thankfully very inconvenient.

Our tongues tangle a few moments longer, her hand squeezing my knee. I feel my lips leave hers to trail down her neck. I hear her softly gasp my name as she drops her head back.

She moans softly, and I realize I must have found a good spot. I linger there just a moment longer, kissing, sucking lightly (I don’t want to mark her), even licking a little.

Bloody hell.

I need to rein it in before I lose my mind. I kiss my way back up to her lips, and her hand not on my knee is in my hair again. The hand on my knee has moved a little higher.

Need to stop. My lips won’t listen. I keep kissing her, exploring the warm corners of her mouth, committing them to memory. Then my free hand moves from where it was stalwartly gripping the gearshift to instead hold her waist, bunching the material of her hoodie in my fist.

 _Stop._ Let her go inside.

I listen to myself this time, pulling away as gently as I can. I kiss the end of her nose before retreating completely, just to soften yet another rejection. She says she knows I’m not rejecting her, but I still feel guilty doing this to her. I’d feel equally guilty giving in to my growing desires, though.

I’m quickly wedging myself in between a rock and a hard place here.

“Goodnight, Arthur,” she says, her voice breathy.

“See you tomorrow. Sleep well, Guinevere.” She leans over and kisses me again, then stares at me expectantly for a moment. “Well?” she finally asks.

I’m lost. My eyes dart around, looking for the answer.

“You were going to move closer to the door, silly,” she says.

“ _Oh,_ that,” I laugh. I start the car and pull it over to the door.

“Tomorrow,” she says. “One more,” she whispers, kisses me quickly, and then she’s gone, out of the car and into her building while my lips tingle with the memory of her touch, her flavor. Her scent lingers in my nose and in my car. It’s heady and it’s wonderful and it _hurts._

I drive home, wondering how long I’ll be able to maintain my living-in-the-moment and not think about the inevitable end. I had a very fun time tonight, but there are always reminders, always little things that bring me back to reality. Tonight it was Guinevere’s father, which was unexpected. Tomorrow, it’ll be something else.

I may tell myself I’m in control of things. I may tell myself I have a handle on this curse.

But the truth is, I’m like an addict. I know it’s going to wind up hurting me (hurting us both), but I keep going back for more and more.

What is it that addicts always say? I can quit any time I want. Right.


	21. Day 20

Stone Bowl is a soup restaurant. They have a selection of about six different soups each day. You go up, order what you want, and then follow the little counter along. It’s a bit office canteen-ish, but the soup is very good. Plus they give you bread with a little foil-wrapped pat of butter that is never too hard.

I hate it when the butter is so hard that all you end up with is a hole in the center of your bread with a pat of butter stuck to the edge of it.

I wait outside for her this time, but I’m a little early. I walked over, as my building is just two blocks away. Guinevere’s little blue car comes into view and parks at 12:28, and I smile as I watch her walk towards me.

“Sorry,” she says.

“You’re not late,” I answer, kissing her cheek. “I was early.”

“Where did you park?” she asks, looking around for my car.

“I walked. The office is just over there,” I point. It’s clearly visible from where we are.

“Oh,” she laughs. “When you said it was right near your office, I didn’t realize you meant that it was _right_ near your office!”

I chuckle and open the door for her.

We fall into the queue, not too long yet, and survey today’s options.

Chicken and dumpling (which they always have). Lentil. Tomato basil (they always have at least one vegetarian option). Beef barley. Split pea with ham. And, surprisingly, Texas chili. Interesting.

Guinevere orders the tomato basil. I decide to try the chili.

“You’ll have to let us know what you think,” the girl behind the counter says. “It’s our first time offering it. Got the recipe from someone’s cousin in America.”

“I will,” I say. We file along and receive our bowls at the end.

“Cheese and onions?” the man with my bowl asks.

“Um, cheese, but no onions, thank you,” I say. He drops a generous pile of shredded cheddar cheese on my bowl. This just keeps getting better. I put it on the tray and see that instead of the regular bread, I’ve been given a yellow muffin.

“That’s cornbread,” the man tells me. “Supposed to be good with chili.”

“Another recipe from the cousin in America?” I ask. He smiles and nods.

Gwen has gone ahead and has found us a table near the window, and I join her. “Cornbread,” I tell her, holding up my muffin.

“Sounds good,” she says, buttering her thick slice of French bread. “So how has your morning been?” she asks.

“Actually, pretty good. We got a date for the groundbreaking for the rec center,” I say. I’m very excited. This is my first whole building. I’ve designed parts of other ones, like at the hospital, but I’ve never done an entire building before.

“That’s wonderful! When is it?” She takes a bite of her soup. “This is really good.”

“The 27th. The zoning was already in place and everything, so it was just a matter of scheduling, really.” I try my chili. Bloody hell, it’s good. This is Man Soup. I try the cornbread. It’s really good, too. Sweet. A nice contrast to the chili.

“Would I be allowed to come to it?” she asks quietly. I’m touched that she wants to be there.

“Sure, it’s open to the public,” I say without thinking. Her face falls slightly, and I realize what I’ve said. “But… you can come as my guest, if you want.”

She smiles again, and I feel better. “I’d like that.”

Now seems like a good time to ask. “Hey, um, I’ve got a dinner thing for work coming up in a couple of weeks. I can bring a plus-one. Would you like to come? I mean, if you’re available…”

“When is it?”

“Two weeks from tomorrow, I think.” I check my calendar on my phone. “Yeah. The 16th. It’s a Saturday night, formal-type thing. Not black tie – just you know, dressy.”

“I’d love to come,” she says, smiling at me again.

“Oh, good. I can’t promise it’ll be the most exciting evening in the world, but the food will be good.”

“I’ll have to find a dress,” she mutters, a bit absently.

“Don’t go to any trouble,” I say. I honestly don’t care what she wears; I’m just happy she’s coming.

“Nice try. This is a fancy dinner thing with your colleagues. And I assume your father will be there,” she says, raising her eyebrows at me.

“Yes.”

“So I will have to get a new dress. And probably shoes. Somehow I don’t think the peasant skirts and boots that I normally would wear when I have to look nice among other artists will quite cut it.”

“All right, I give, you’ve convinced me,” I say, raising my hands in surrender.

“You don’t have to _come_ shopping with me or anything,” she says, chuckling at me. “I’ll take Sefa with me. She’s always game.”

 

xXx

 

We step out into the cool spring air, and she looks down the street towards my office again.

“Can I see your work?” she asks, looking back at me. She looks so sweet and hopeful that I can’t say no.

“Sure. Why don’t we take your car over and then you can drive back from there. That way, you won’t have to walk all the way back to your car.”

And besides, Father is off on what will likely turn out to be another two-drink lunch.

It’s not that I don’t want her to meet my father. It’s just that I want her to meet my father where there will be a lot of other people around in case he decides to be, well, himself.

“Okay,” she says, taking my hand and heading to her car.

This is strange, her driving. I prefer to drive. Call it old-fashioned, call it misogynistic, call it controlling, whatever. I like to be the one driving. But I can live for two blocks.

“This is a switch,” she smirks at me, starting her car.

“Yeah. I’ve never been in your car,” I say. Her car is very well-kept and clean. Not even a chewing gum wrapper in sight. I like that. Vivian’s car was like a rolling trash bin.

Huh. Haven’t thought of her in weeks. But why would I?

“You can park right there, in one of those visitor spots,” I point.

We head in, and I give her the tour. It’s not much, at least to me it isn’t, but she seems very impressed. She likes the framed prints of drawings of the various buildings the company has designed, all hanging in the corridor like trophies.

“It’s mostly a lot of offices and desks,” I shrug, looking around.

“It’s very nice. You just don’t think much of it because you’re here every day,” she says. “Where’s your office?”

“This way,” I say, leading her down the corridor to my office. “This is Leon’s.” I poke my head in. “Must be at lunch.”

Guinevere looks at everything in my office. I still have the rec center model sitting there, and she inspects it, cooing appreciatively from time to time. She touches one of the trees and smiles.

“Eventually that’ll get dismantled,” I say.

“Really? That’s too bad,” she straightens up. “You worked hard on it.”

“Yes, but I’ll have the real thing as evidence that it existed, you know,” I say. “And since it’s getting built, my drawing will get framed and hung in the hallway.” I wave my hand vaguely at the drawing sitting on an easel in the corner.

“Arthur, who are you… oh, hello.”

Bugger. My father. I thought he was at lunch. “Father, this is Guinevere Leodegrance,” I say. “Guinevere, my father, Uther Pendragon.”

“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Guinevere walks over to shake his hand.

“Yes, pleased to make your acquaintance, Guinevere,” he says, shaking her hand.

I notice she doesn’t tell him to call her Gwen like she usually does. He seems to be in a decent enough mood, so that’s good.

“I thought you were having lunch with Alined,” I say.

“He cancelled. I was grateful. He’s a terrible businessman and dreadful to converse with.”

“Ah. I, um, was just showing Guinevere around. We just had lunch down the street and she asked to see my office,” I say. _Go away, go away, go away…_

“Well, that’s new,” he says.

Oh no.

“So does this mean you’re going to keep this one around, then, or is she another two-months-and-done?”

Where are the attacking wyverns when you really need them? Or even a griffin. A flock of cockatrices. _Anything._ A questing beast would be fantastic. Great Kilgarrah could come back and snatch me up in his talons and I’d go willingly.

I glance nervously at Guinevere. Her eyes are wide and her mouth is slightly open, shocked. She’s waiting for me to say something. Anything.

I can’t say anything. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Father glances at his watch. “Excuse me, I have a conference call. Lovely meeting you,” he says curtly. Then he has the nerve to nod at Guinevere before turning on his heel and striding back to his office.

Gwen looks like she’s been struck. I may as well have done.

“Guinev—”

“I have to get back to work,” she says, talking over me. Her voice is soft but steady. Steadier than mine, anyway.

In a flash, she’s gone. I take one step after her, but then stop.

What can I say?

I do know one thing: my father did _not_ have a fucking conference call. I take a deep breath and stride out of my office, down the corridor towards Uther Pendragon’s posh corner office with its two leather sofas and private bathroom that I use whenever he’s out.

 

xXx

 

It’s after five. I tried calling Guinevere once I got done having words with my father. She didn’t answer. I didn’t expect that she would. A half an hour after that, I sent her a text asking if she was all right.

 _I’m fine._ That’s all she sent. I asked if she could talk and she told me she was busy.

I’m sick now. Like physically sick. Really-regretting-the-chili sick. I’m worried that she’s going to want out; that this will be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Between my, well, frankly, odd behavior half the time and my father making that totally inappropriate remark, I wouldn’t blame her.

Thus far she’s had the patience of a saint, but is this going to push her over the edge?

If she shows me the door, I’m done. I can’t use my normal methods for “smoothing things over with a woman” on her, because those methods were all total bollocks. Not an honest word there. I just can’t do that to her, and I cannot for the life of me figure out why.

There’s only one thing I can do: go to her flat. If she turns me away, well, that’s her right and I won’t bother her again, no matter the consequences.

But I have to try.

Then it hits me.

I _want_ to try.

I park out front this time, too timid to park in the back where she told me. It doesn’t seem right at the moment.

Shit. I may as well be a part of a montage over which some trite pop tune plays.

I press the button. It takes longer than usual for her to answer.

“Who is it, please?”

At least she didn’t assume it was me. Of course, she’s not expecting me.

Who am I kidding? She’s expecting me.

“It’s Arthur. Can I please come up and talk to you?”

She doesn’t answer, but the door buzzes loudly and I pull it open. I walk up the stairs to her door, where I knock.

“It’s open,” she calls from inside. I open the door and walk in to see her sitting on her couch, facing away from me. She sets a pencil on top of a sketchpad resting on the coffee table. I can see several very beautiful drawings, almost doodles, scattered around the page. Clearly jewelry designs. There is a crumpled piece of paper on the table as well, with an eraser next to it.

“Guinevere, I’m sorry,” I say, stepping forward into the living room.

“I know,” she says.

She does? I wasn’t expecting that reaction.

“May I sit?”

“Yes.”

I sit in her recliner, because I don’t feel that I’ve regained the right to sit beside her on the couch. Her eyes are a little red. She was crying sometime not too long ago.

I hate that I made her cry.

She looks at me, just waiting. I don’t know what to say. All of my carefully-constructed platitudes and apologies feel hollow and insincere. Because they are.

So I let the words come out like they always do when she’s around.

“Two months has been about the length of my attention span lately,” I admit, still mentally spewing a stream of swear words at my father. “That’s all he meant. It was meant to sting me, not you.” I rake my hand through my hair, and I see Gwen reach for her mobile. “What are you doing?”

She looks up at me, her face carefully impassive. “Counting. Marking when I can expect you to break up with me.”

Her voice is cold, emotionless. I’ve never heard her like this, and it scares me more than it should. She’s being so… pragmatic. Distant. I can’t stand it.

“Don’t do that,” I whisper, my voice giving away my desperation. “Guinevere…”

“What?” She drops her hand, her phone dangling from it, and looks at me. Waiting again.

She’s not crying. She was before, but she’s not now. She’s not showing any emotion at all, which scares me.

“I… I already know that I want to be with you longer than two months,” I say. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the complete truth, either. I know I _want_ to be with her longer than my allotted 60 days. But I also know that I _can’t._

“So how long, then, Arthur? Three months? Six? Am I just setting myself up for heartbreak, here?” she exclaims, her carefully calm exterior finally giving way.

“Anytime anyone is in a relationship there is always a potential for heartbreak,” I whisper.

“Well, that’s a bloody pessimistic view of life,” she says, setting her mobile down on the coffee table with a bit more force than necessary. Her pencil rolls off the sketchpad to the table, and then the floor. She doesn’t pick it up. “Yes, there’s always a potential for heartbreak. But one could also argue that there’s equal potential for real love, Arthur. Did you ever think about that?”

Every day since the day I met you. “I know that’s true,” I say. I just can’t allow myself the luxury to think that way, because it tears me up on the inside. “Guinevere, I’m sorry my father said what he said. I can’t control what comes out of his mouth, unfortunately.”

“It’s not just what he said, Arthur. I get that he notices your habits. I’m sure Leon was probably thinking the same thing, since you don’t seem to be denying the validity of his statement.”

I nod, looking at the floor. I can’t look at her. I feel much too small. Too unworthy.

“It’s not what he said so much as how you reacted to it. Or rather, didn’t react. You didn’t defend yourself. You didn’t defend me. _Us._ ” She scoots closer, reaching over to lift my chin, forcing me to look at her. Her touch is so gentle that I could resist, but I am unable to do so. “ _Is_ there an ‘us,’ Arthur? I’d like there to be.”

I think my heart starts beating again. She’s not going to dump me. “You’re not leaving me, then?”

She stares at me like I’ve gone insane. “Leaving you? Arthur, this is hardly something worth leaving you over. I’m hurt, yes. I’m still waiting for more explanation, yes. But leaving? No.” She cocks her head at me thoughtfully for a moment. “What kinds of girls have you been seeing that would lead you to believe that this is a capital offense? No wonder they only lasted two months each.”

I almost kiss her. But now is not the time. She still needs more information. Should I tell her?

 _Can_ I tell her?

No. I don’t know what it would do to me. Good God, what if it did something to _her?_ “I want there to be an ‘us,’ too,” I say. “I didn’t refute my father because historically he is correct. It was terribly rude and thoughtless of him to say it in your presence, and believe me, after you left, we definitely had words in his office. He didn’t even have a conference call. I left work at three because I didn’t want to look at him. I really have no excuse for why I didn’t defend you when you were there, and I am so sorry for that.” I speak quietly, feeling like a world class arse. “He’s one of two people that can render me speechless, I guess.” I look down again.

“Who is the other?” she asks.

I look up at her. “I thought you knew,” I say, smiling a small smile.

“Oh,” she says, chuckling a little.

“Can you forgive me?” I ask, scooting closer.

“I’ll give it some thought,” she says, but I can see she’s trying not to smile.

I inch closer again and take her hands in mine. I start kissing her fingers. “Please?” I ask, trying to sound as pathetic as possible.

It’s not difficult. I truly am pathetic.

“Maybe,” she says.

“Shall I kiss your feet and beg forgiveness? Because I will,” I say. I release her hands and drop to my knees at her feet, picking one up.

“Arthur!” she exclaims, pulling her foot away before I succeed in removing the purple fuzzy slipper she is wearing. “That’s really not necessary,” she says. “I forgive you.”

“Thank you,” I say, dropping my forehead against her knee.

“But you need to understand something,” she says, and I lift my head. “I promised to be patient with you. I know you’re going through some shit, even though you won’t tell me all of what it is.”

I take a deep breath. So she knows that there’s more than what I’ve told her.

“I keep my promises. But that doesn’t mean you can abuse my good graces. Screw up too much, and I _will_ walk, promise or no.”

“That’s fair,” I say. I rest my cheek on her knee now, looking up at her. “I know I’m an arse.”

“Only sometimes,” she says, tugging a bit of my hair. “Your father’s going to be at that dinner, isn’t he?” she asks then.

“Unfortunately. And we’ll likely be sitting at a table with him. I did tell him that he owes you an apology.”

“Arthur, get off the floor,” she says.

“Are you still willing to come to that dinner?” I ask, moving up to sit beside her on the couch now.

“Ask me tomorrow,” she sighs, leaning back against the couch. That’s fair. I lean back as well, and she rests her head on my shoulder.

If I have to go to the dinner alone, I will. If she would be more comfortable that way, then so be it.

“Speaking of tomorrow,” I say. I reach for her hand, and she gives it. “It’s supposed to be really nice out. I was thinking maybe some time outdoors.”

“What did you have in mind?” she asks. “Not camping.”

I laugh. “A picnic. Maybe a small hike, if we feel like it.”

“Picnic? _You’re_ going to pack a picnic?”

“I… may get take-away food and _put_ it in a picnic basket…”

Now she laughs. “I could make something for us,” she offers.

“No.” I knew she would offer, but that’s not what I had in mind. “You don’t need to do anything. I’m trying to apologize here, make it up to you in my own pathetic little way.”

“Oh, well, in that case, you better get something good,” she says. She’s teasing me again. This is good.

“Hey, I don’t cook, remember? So that means I know all the best take-away places.”

“Picnic and hike. I have to admit, I am curious.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes, Arthur, I’ll go on your little picnic tomorrow.”

“Good.”

We sit on the couch, leaning against one another for a few minutes. I don’t deserve it, but I’m going to ask anyway.

“Is it too soon to ask for a kiss?”

She looks up at me. She opens her mouth, like she’s about to say something, but then closes it again, leaning up to kiss me instead.

Good answer.


	22. Day 21

I picked her up at 12:30 for our picnic, since she had to spend time in the shop this morning. I found out that she doesn’t always work Saturday mornings, and will even close earlier than noon if it’s dead. I guess that’s one of the nice things about having your own place. If you don’t want to be open, you don’t really have to be.

There are several forests surrounding Camelot. My sister lives in the Darkling Wood, so I have chosen the Forest of Essetir for our picnic. It’s on the opposite side of town from Darkling.

I took her picnic basket home with me last night – her idea – got some curry take-away for our lunch, and then stopped at a bakery for some dessert.

When she came out, she had pillows with her, and I laughed, remembering the concert and how we all realized we wanted pillows.

The air is warm and dry, and there’s a light breeze, just enough to cool your skin where the sun has heated it. Perfect day.

We walk a bit until we find a nice clearing that’s even near a little stream. It’s almost too quaint and picturesque to be believed, so we pounce on it before it decides to disappear on us.

 

xXx

 

“This is nice,” she says, stretching out beside me after we finish eating. I chose several dishes for us to pick from, and got quite lucky in that I mostly chose things she likes.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it? Getting away from everything. For a little while, anyway.”

“You sound like a man looking to escape from something,” she says, looking over at me.

I forgot how transparent I am to her. I take a drink from my water bottle to stall while I think of my reply. I’m not even sure why I said what I said. “You mean you’ve never thought about leaving Camelot?” I ask, redirecting it back at her.

“Sure, I have,” she allows. “But I never would, of course. This is my home.”

“I know,” I sigh. “Mine, too. It’s just… sometimes…” Why am I talking about myself again? How does she make me do that?

“What is it, Arthur?”

“Sometimes the shadow of my father is too heavy, you know?” She nods. “I mean, most of the time it’s fine, but there are days…”

“Like yesterday?” she smirks at me.

“Heh. Yeah. Like yesterday. Days where I just wish I wasn’t… me. Wasn’t his son, I mean. Not because of _who_ he is, but because of _what_ he is.”

“I think I understand,” she says. She scoots closer, resting her head on my shoulder. My arm wraps around her reflexively. The pillows definitely make a difference.

“Sometimes who he is is difficult to deal with as well, though,” I add. “Mother couldn’t take it. That’s why she…” I stop. I shouldn’t be telling her all this.

“Why she what?” Guinevere lifts her head and looks up at me. Bloody hell, she’s so close. All I need to do is shift four inches and those lips could be mine. But no. Her eyes are making me talk again.

“Well, you know she’s dead,” I say, giving up. She nods and drops her head back down onto my chest, her fingers tracing the letters on my t-shirt. “ _Officially_ she lost control of her car on the bridge over Kilgarrah Pass. The _actual_ truth is she was in complete control of her car.” I stare up at the blue sky, watching as puffy white clouds drift and change shape.

“She killed herself?” Gwen asks softly.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Arthur,” she says softly, reaching up to touch my cheek. She also leans up and places a soft kiss on the edge of my jaw.

“Thanks,” I mutter, not really wishing to dwell on that pain right now.

“Can I ask how you know? Weren’t you just a baby at the time?”

“Yeah. I found out when I was 21. It was the 20th anniversary of her death, and I was dining with Father, as per usual. He got completely pissed that night and told me everything.”

“Oh, no,” she says, sensing how uncomfortable that evening was for me.

“Oh, yes. He was a mess. It was horrifying. Crying, slurring his words together. I wound up half-carrying him to his room and dumping him in his bed. I took his shoes off and that’s it.”

“That was good of you. I mean, you _could_ have left him to pass out on the dining room floor or the study or wherever, leaving him for the help to deal with in the morning.”

I nod. Of course she knows my father has an in-house staff.

“Mother suffered from depression. She’d been on medication for it.” Words are dropping unchecked out of my mouth now. I don’t even care anymore, though. It feels kind of good to get this out. Leon doesn’t even know this, and I’m not sure if Morgana knows or not (she probably does). But I know I can trust Guinevere.

I can trust her. She can’t trust me. It stabs at me almost constantly now.

“Because of the affair?” Gwen asks.

“Perhaps. I honestly don’t know; she may have been dealing with it her whole life. But she had to go off her meds when she was pregnant with me. She thought she was doing well after I was born, so she didn’t go back on them.”

“Probably should have,” she says.

“A lot of women have depression issues right after having a baby, as I’m sure you know,” I say, and I feel her nod against my chest. “And with her already having had a history, the doctor should have insisted. _Father_ should have insisted.”

“Do you know what made her snap finally?”

“No. He didn’t tell me that. He passed out before he got there. All I got was that they had been arguing about something. He went to bed, thinking the issue closed and done with. She waited until he was asleep, grabbed the car keys, and took off into the night.”

“How awful.”

“I like to think that she came in and at least kissed me goodbye,” I say quietly.

“I’m sure she did, Arthur,” Gwen reassures me.

“I guess she left him a note. I don’t know where it is,” I say, very quietly. I both really want to know what’s in that note and really do not want to know what’s in that note.

We’re quiet for a few moments. “So that’s my messed up parents,” I sigh, looking down at the top of her head. I lift my hand and touch one of the curls resting on my shoulder behind the elastic band in which she has them contained. “I think I need dessert.”

She giggles, lifts her head, and gives me a small kiss before moving back over to the picnic basket to bring out the box with the two cupcakes inside.

“Dessert always helps,” she says, peering inside the box. “Ooo… what flavors do we have here?”

Dessert does help, but the truth is, _she_ helps. She listens without interrupting, or worse, judging. She asks questions without prying, letting me tell her what I will.

What kind did I get again? I look. “Oh. Carrot, obviously,” I say, pointing to the one with a little icing carrot piped on top of the white icing, “and chocolate with salted caramel.”

“Goodness,” she says. “Do you have a preference?”

“I prefer if you would choose,” I say. I want them both, actually, but I must be a gentleman.

She bites her lower lip, staring at them. “We’ll split them, so we can try both,” she decides.

“Perfect,” I say, watching as she pulls them carefully out of the box, sets them on a plate, unwraps them, and slices them perfectly in half.

I try the carrot first. I like carrot cake. And this kind has no raisins. I don’t like raisins in my baked goods; they always end up all smooshy and weird. It’s really very good. “I could probably eat an entire bowl full of this cream cheese frosting,” I say, licking my fingers before reaching for a napkin.

“So I see,” she giggles at me. “It is very good.” I notice she’s taken the carrot one first as well. “Getting full, but I have to try this one.” She reaches for the chocolate one. Caramel filling is oozing from the center where she’s cut it.

“Absolutely. And besides, we’ll be taking a hike, right?” I say, reaching for the other half.

It’s unbelievable. The cake is very rich, moist chocolate, and the filling and the icing are both caramel, with just enough salt (I can see it sprinkled on the top of the icing, even) to keep it from being overpoweringly sweet.

“That one is definitely better,” I declare, licking my fingers again, determined to get every bit I can.

I glance down at the plate, where there’s a small puddle of caramel sitting in the bottom of the opened cupcake paper.

“Don’t you dare,” Guinevere says, reaching for the plate herself.

“Hey!” I try to sound indignant, but I’m laughing, so it doesn’t quite work.

I watch, helpless, as she swipes her slender finger through the caramel and lifts it to her lips, sucking the sweet goo off of the end.

I want to be that finger.

Oh dear. I must have made some sort of sound, because her eyes dart to me, alight with mischief and… something else.

“Come here,” she says, returning her finger to the plate to collect more caramel. Again I am helpless and lean closer, waiting. “Open,” she instructs softly. I open and lean forward, sucking her caramel-laden fingertip into my mouth.

It tastes even better from her finger. I close my eyes, groaning softly, and she slides her finger out of my mouth.

Before my eyes open, her lips are on mine, her tongue replacing her finger inside my mouth.

I lean back against the pillows, pulling her with me, wrapping my arms around her. She settles in against me, half lying on me, her lips never leaving mine, her hand on my chest.

I relax a little and let _her_ kiss _me,_ for a bit, allowing myself just a few precious moments to let someone else take control.

I fully realize that I am playing with fire. I also realize that my left hand is reaching up and gently pulling the elastic band from her hair while my right is fighting the urge to slide down and cup that beautiful backside of hers.

Then she pulls her lips from mine, reaches up, and yanks her hair tie out. She smirks once and resumes kissing me.

I think I just gaped at her the whole time. But now my fingers slip into her hair as we kiss, my hand cradling her head softly.

Her hand slides on my chest, caressing, Exploring, I think.

She’s so wonderful, so sweet, like the salted caramel from that cupcake. Rich and brown and just salty enough to keep her sweetness from being overpowering.

And bloody hell, she can really kiss. I’m losing it fast here. She plunders my mouth in an almost sinful way and – oh, God – hooks her leg over mine now. When I realize that I can feel the waistband of her jeans beneath my right hand, I realize I need to regain control.

“Oh! Um, excuse us…” A strange voice rescues me. Thank goodness. I think.

Gwen rolls off of me in a fit of giggles.

“No, excuse _us,_ ” I say, clearing my throat and hoping there’s nothing visible going on in my jeans. I know what I _feel_ , but I’m afraid to look. I sit up and fold my hands in my lap. Just in case.

“No, no, terribly sorry, we, um… lost the hiking trail, and… you wouldn’t happen to know where it is, do you?” the man asks. He’s middle aged, and so is his companion, a woman I assume to be his wife.

“It’s that way,” I point off to my left. “Just a few yards, I think. At least that’s the way we came in.”

“Thank you,” the woman says now. “Sorry for the… interruption.” She is blushing slightly.

“It’s all right,” Guinevere says. She’s putting her hair back into its ponytail. I think she realizes that we were very close to crossing one of my invisible and possibly arbitrary lines.

They disappear into the woods, and a moment later I hear a distant, “Ah, here we are.”

“Sounds like they found it,” Gwen says, glancing down at the cupcake plate. She looks a tad guilty. “Sorry about that. That wasn’t exactly fair of me, was it?”

“It’s all right. I was… just coming to my senses when we were interrupted, anyway.”

“Oh, really?” she asks, starting to pack things up now.

“It was a struggle, but yes. You are too tempting a morsel, I think.”

“Only _almost_ too tempting, apparently,” she corrects. She’s smiling, so I don’t think she’s upset.

I crawl over beside her. “Hey,” I say softly, taking her hand, “you are wonderful. Don’t doubt that ever.” I kiss her knuckles. “I’m the one who’s all buggered up, remember?” I turn her hand and kiss her palm.

“I don’t think you’re as messed up as you think you are, Arthur,” she says, curling her fingers around my jaw.

Guinevere, you have no idea. I look down, because I can’t bear to look at her. Her inherent goodness feels like a knife in my heart right now.

“You deserve better than me, but I can’t let you go.”

She stares at me. Shit, I said that out loud.

“Stop that,” she tells me, lifting my face, forcing me to look at her. “If I felt that I deserved better, I wouldn’t be here with you. Got it?”

Stern Guinevere is not to be crossed.

Stern Guinevere is also quite sexy.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, my eyes held captive by hers. She leans forward and pecks my lips once.

“Now come on. I need to walk off that cupcake,” she says, switching gears again. I guess the topic is Closed.

“Cupcakes,” I say, standing to help her fold the blanket.

“ _Cake,_ ” she insists. “Two half cupcakes equals one cupcake. You’re making it worse.”

I guess I’m a creature of habit that way. Making things worse is what I do.

“All right, cup _cake_. Let’s take this back to the car and then take a walk. I actually want to show you something,” I say, picking up the basket and blanket while she takes the pillows.

“I think the opportunity for that has passed,” she says dryly, and I can’t help but laugh.

 

xXx

 

The hiking path is mostly wide and well-kept. Here and there a tree root or rock crops up that we need to step over, and there are a few narrow places, but generally it’s quite pleasant and easygoing.

“So what was it you wanted to show me?” she asks.

“There’s a cave Leon and I found when we were kids. It’s really cool, if memory serves. There were ferns and mossy things and vines all over it.”

“A cave? Is that where you take your hapless victims after you’ve chopped them into tiny pieces?”

“For now. Once we break ground on the rec center, I’ll move them there, where they’ll be covered in cement for the foundation.”

“That’s pretty dark, Arthur,” she chuckles.

“You started it,” I say, laughing with her.

I see a large, twisted, mostly dead tree ahead and slightly to the right of us. The cave was right behind that tree. “This way,” I say, taking her hand and guiding her over towards the tree. “It slopes off behind this tree and the cave is down there.”

“Hmm,” she says, releasing my hand and stepping over, picking her way through the tree roots.

“Careful, there,” I say, following her. She’s completely fearless, stepping to the edge of the slope, even climbing up on a gnarled root.

Then her foot slips, there’s a short shriek, and she’s gone.

My stomach drops.

“Gwen!” I exclaim, hurrying (carefully) over to where she fell, only slightly over to one side, where it looks a little more stable. “Guinevere?”

“I found the cave.” Her voice floats up, a little shaky, but she’s whole. I exhale a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and walk down the slightly gentler slope in front of me, making my way down.

“Where are – oh. There you are,” I say, and my heart starts beating again.

Wow. I was really scared. Like, really. That’s a new feeling. I’ve been scared before (hell, I’m scared all the time when I’m with her), but being scared for someone else’s safety is somewhat foreign.

I’m such a dick.

“Hi,” she says. She’s sitting on the ground, her legs in front of her. They’re both facing the right way, which is good. Her arms appear fine as well.

“Are you all right?” I ask, stepping over.

“I think so. You’re right, this cave is really cool.”

I walk over and reach my hands down for her. She takes my hands and I gently pull her to her feet. “You scared me,” I admit, leaning down to kiss her. I also pull a twig from her hair.

“I’m tough,” she says, pulling away from me, heading towards the cave. “Whoa! Ow!” She buckles on her first step and I reach out and catch her before she topples again. “Maybe not _that_ tough.”

“What is it? Ankle? Knee?”

“Ankle,” she says, lifting her foot and slowly rotating her foot. “Ouch.”

“Hike is over,” I declare.

“We have to get back to the car,” she says.

“That’s no problem,” I say. “Here,” I pick her up and set her atop a boulder nearby. Then I turn my back to her, standing close. “Climb on, my lady.”

“You’re serious,” she says.

“You have a better idea?”

“You have to climb back up that hill.”

“It’s not that steep over there,” I point. “And you barely weigh anything at all. Get on.”

She finally climbs on, wrapping her arms around my neck and her legs around my waist.

I’ve been in this position before, but usually she’s facing me and there are far fewer articles of clothing involved.

Even so, the press of her body against my back is distracting.

Start walking.

“If you need to take a break at any time, I won’t be insulted,” she says in my ear.

“Guinevere, I’ve taken three steps,” I say, starting up the hill. She feels about as heavy as my backpack was when I was in school.

I reach the top and start back on the path.

“You all right still?” she asks.

“Stop it, I’m fine.” I really am.

We walk along, and pass another pair of hikers, two women this time, who give us odd looks.

“Fell and twisted my ankle,” she tells them.

They nod. “Nice ride,” one of them says, chuckling as they pass.

She laughs.

 

xXx

 

“Do you want to see a doctor?” I ask once we are back in the car.

“Arthur, it’s Saturday. I don’t think it’s broken. Just take me home, please.”

“Okay,” I say, heading to her flat. “I’m going to have to carry you upstairs, you know.”

“I could hop,” she suggests.

“And fall again? No.”

When we get to her place, I park in back again, help her out of the car, and carry her upstairs on my back again. I considered carrying her in my arms, but her stairwell is narrow and I was afraid I’d hit her sore ankle on the wall or something.

She’d given me her keys, of course, so once I get her settled on the couch I go back down for her basket and pillows.

When I return, she’s taking her hiking boot off, slowly and carefully. She’s got the one off of her non-injured foot already.

“Is it blue at all?” I ask, closing the door behind me.

“What?”

“Your ankle or foot. Take your sock off,” I say, sitting on the floor by her feet. “Let me see.” I pull her foot into my lap and roll her jeans up a little so I can see her ankle.

She has very pretty feet. Why is it that way with women? My feet are just feet. Blunt tools for walking around on, basically. Hers are like art. Even if a little swollen.

Focus. She’s hurt.

I peer at her ankle. She reaches back and flips on a lamp. “Thank you,” I mutter. I slowly turn her foot this way and that. She sucks in her breath a little at one point, but everything appears to be moving. “Sorry,” I say. “I don’t think it’s broken. I broke my arm once, and it swelled up and turned kind of blue.”

“Oh. Okay.”

I lift both of her feet in my hands and turn her to rest them up on the couch.

“I hope you have ice,” I say.

“Should do. There may even be an ice pack in there.”

I rummage through her freezer and find a cold pack, grab the tea towel hanging on the handle of her oven, and bring it over to her, placing it on her foot. I also hand her the remote for the TV. “Tylenol would be where?”

“Bathroom cupboard,” she says quietly. Suddenly I’m reminded of when I rolled the sleeves up on my hoodie for her. Is that what that tone was? It’s the same one she used just now. Is she just touched that I’m being thoughtful? Was rolling up those sleeves for her thoughtful? I didn’t think it was a big deal.

Ah, here we are. Ibuprofen, even better. I take a couple out and cross back to the kitchen to get her a drink to wash them down. As I pass through, it strikes me how comfortable I am in her small apartment. It’s almost as if I’ve been here many times instead of just twice. It’s… unsettlingly domestic. To my shock, I really like it.

“Here we are,” I say, handing them to her. Then I settle by her feet, lifting them into my lap. She still has one sock on. “Do you want your sock back on or this one off?” I ask, adjusting her ice pack.

“Take the other one off,” she says. Then she laughs. “There, I got you to undress me,” she says, giggling.

“Naughty girl,” I say, pretending to be shocked. I glance at the telly. Another cooking show. Oh well; her house. Maybe I’ll learn something.

“Are you just going to sit there?” she asks. It’s just a question, not an accusation.

“Do you want me to go?” I ask.

“No. I was just wondering how long I would have you around to take care of me.”

“Um, don’t know. At least until supper?”

“Well, if you keep up with that foot massage, you can stay as long as you like,” she says.

I look down. I hadn’t even realized that I was rubbing her uninjured foot, but at the moment, my thumb is stroking the arch of her foot, not tickling but firmly, soothing and stretching the muscles.

Now she has control of my hands as well. That could get very dangerous.

I stay with her until after dinner. We eat the rest of the takeout food, making sure first that it was still good, of course. Then I help her to her bedroom, where she assures me that she’ll be fine and I can go.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I say, leaning over to kiss her. I won’t sit on her bed. Even so, one kiss leads to about four or five before I finally find the will to leave.

That particular will is finding increasingly better hiding places.

I need to go home and find where I left my brain.

The problem with that is, it’s probably not at home. It’s more likely under Guinevere’s bed. Or in it.

I really liked taking care of her. This is a revelation.


	23. Day 22

I was restless last night again. Couldn’t fall asleep because she was in my thoughts again, tormenting me. In a good way. Too good a way. Between that amazing snog on the blanket, carrying her around, and, most shockingly, looking after her into the evening, someone _else_ was awake and vying for attention.

It’s not something I do as often as one might think, actually. At first, yeah, just to take the edge off, but as I got deeper and deeper into this mess, the urges stopped coming.

But they’re back now. I can’t even remember the last time I was this attracted to a woman. Perhaps I never have been this attracted before.

And it’s not just how she looks, either. I’m actually attracted to her brain, her personality. Everything about her calls to me.

It worries me. A lot.

So finally, around two, I gave in, shutting my eyes and thinking about her, and was actually able to sleep after.

Now it’s 9:30 a.m. and I’m still in bed. I woke up a few minutes ago. I have to pee something terrible, but I can’t summon the energy to get out of bed to go.

I flip over on my stomach and pull the blanket over my head.

Oh. No good. Just makes the urge to pee stronger.

All right, bladder, you win.

I get up, take care of business, and flop back into bed. Then I grab my mobile, unplug it from its charger, and call Guinevere.

“Good morning, Arthur,” she says. She sounds well-rested and happy.

“Hey,” I say. “How are you feeling?”

“Better than you, from the sounds of things. You’re not ill, are you?”

“Hang on,” I say, reaching over for the glass of water on my bedside table. I take a drink and clear my throat. “Is that better?”

“A little,” she chuckles. “Rough night again?”

“Little bit, yeah,” I say. “Didn’t fall asleep till after 2.”

“Oh, no. Something troubling you?”

“Just the same old, you know,” I say, trying not to sound too evasive about it. “I’m okay.”

“If you say so,” she says. Once again, she knows I’m not telling her everything, but she doesn’t press. “I would have thought that you would have slept well after being outside most of the afternoon. I slept great.”

“I’m glad you did. I’m still in bed, actually.”

She giggles at me. “I’ve been up for an hour. Hobbling around, but up. I can put some weight on it, but I’m definitely limping.”

“You shouldn’t be on it at all,” I say. “You should be taking more ibuprofen and sitting with it elevated and icing it periodically.”

“Thank you, Dr. Pendragon, I will take that under advisement.”

“Is that sarcasm, Miss Leodegrance?”

“Yes, I rather think it is. I’ll be fine, Arthur.”

“Don’t push yourself. Did you need anything today?”

“Um, don’t think so. Though I wouldn’t turn away some handsome company,” she says.

“Well, then I hope some turns up,” I say. She laughs again. “Can I bring you some lunch?”

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

“Anything you’d like?” I ask.

“Fish and chips,” she says immediately.

“I can do that,” I say.

“Do you think you’ll be able to get a little more sleep before you come over?” she asks.

“So I don’t doze off on you again?”

“Well, there’s that. But mainly it was just me being concerned about you,” she says.

She shouldn’t worry about me. She doesn’t need to shoulder my woes.

“I’ll be fine, thanks,” I say quietly. “I’ll maybe try closing my eyes for a bit. Would you call me at eleven, just in case?”

“Of course. And I really don’t mind if you fall asleep,” she says.

“Well, hopefully it won’t come to that again,” I chuckle.

“See you in a bit,” she says.

“Okay,” I say. Then I yawn. I do feel better now that I talked with her. Maybe I can close my eyes for an hour or so.

 

xXx

 

I step out of the shower and can hear my mobile ringing. Shit. I must have taken longer in the shower than I thought. I grab my towel and run into the bedroom.

“Hey,” I say. “I’m up, I promise. I was just getting out of the shower.”

She’s laughing again. “So are you dripping on your carpet now?”

I look down. “Kind of.”

“Did you get some more sleep?”

“Yes, actually, I did. Slept until 10:45, in fact.”

“Good,” she declares. “I just hope it doesn’t prevent you from sleeping at a normal time tonight, though. That happens to me—”

“Um, Guinevere? Naked and wet and getting cold over here,” I remind her.

“Oh! Sorry. Right. See you in a bit, then.”

“See you soon.”

I buzz her door shortly after noon, and she does check to see if it’s me before allowing me up.

I knock on her door, she bids me enter, and I am pleased to see that she is just sitting down, arranging the ice pack on her ankle.

“First round of ice of the day?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at her. Then I bend down and kiss her upturned face.

“Maybe,” she says evasively.

“Well, even if you’re only doing it for my benefit, you’re still doing it,” I say, setting the bag on her small kitchen table.

“I’ve got plates and napkins out on the counter and there are drinks in the fridge,” she says.

“Yes, I see them, thanks,” I say. “What can I bring you to drink?”

“I’ve got something already, thanks.”

I bring everything over and sit on the floor, on the other side of the table.

“You can sit up here,” she says.

“I’m here now. You just stay put.”

“Where did you get this from?” she asks, looking at the bag. “Oh, Gilli’s. He’s the best.”

“Yes, he uses his powers for good,” I joke. Gilli has very weak magic, but his fish and chips are the best in Camelot. He mainly uses what little magic he has to levitate chips into waiting children’s mouths. Makes him quite popular with kids and mothers both.

We eat mostly quietly, a movie about robots playing unnoticed on the telly behind me. At least it’s not another cooking show.

Once again I am struck by the comfort level we have. We’re not really talking, and it’s fine. I seem to know where everything is in her kitchen. The cloud hanging over us courtesy of my father seems to be forgotten. At least by her.

I haven’t forgotten it. It made me realize that I can’t really just relax and enjoy my time with her, because I can’t control what _other_ people say and do. So back to Plan A, then.

“Arthur?”

“Hmm?” I look up at her.

“You’ve been holding that chip in mid-air for almost a minute,” she says.

“Oh, so I have,” I say. Then I eat the chip.

“Everything all right?”

“Yeah. Just thinking.”

“What about?”

Stupid mouth. “Us, actually,” I say, smiling a little.

Just dig the hole deeper, Arthur.

“Oh?”

“And the fact that I forgot to ask you yesterday if you still wanted to come to that dinner with me.” With the snogging and the twisted ankle, it kind of slipped my mind.

“Of course I still want to go with you,” she says, as though it should have been obvious.

“Well, when I asked you Friday, you told me to ask you Saturday. If you weren’t comfortable going, I would have just gone by myself. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

“I know. But I do want to go. I’ve never been to a fancy industry dinner before.” She tosses her napkin on the table, done eating.

“You’re going to be disappointed, I’m afraid. They’re usually dreadfully boring.”

“But you said the food was good,” she smiles. “So that has to count for something.”

I’m done eating, too, so I stand and collect everything to take to the kitchen. Guinevere starts to get off the couch.

“Stay put,” I say.

“Surely I’m allowed to use the bathroom?” she asks, standing, her hands on her hips.

“Of course, sorry,” I say. I watch her hobble across the small living room towards the bathroom. I think about offering to help her, but I think that would just earn me a dirty look. So I finish cleaning up lunch.

When she comes out of the bathroom, I’m seated on the couch, flipping channels.

“Good thing I wasn’t really watching that,” she chuckles, joining me on the couch. I’ve got my shoes off now, one leg up on the couch, the other on the floor. She sits between my knees and leans back against me. She’s dressed comfortably today, which isn’t a surprise. A t-shirt and some soft cotton trousers, kind of like sweats without the elastic at the bottom.

“Mmm,” I make an involuntary noise of contentment as she settles back against me, once again a perfect fit. I find myself kissing her temple without even thinking about it.

“Would you pick a channel, please? You’re as bad as my brother was, honestly. Must be a male thing,” she grumbles. It just makes me chuckle, and I stop surfing on a golf tournament. “ _This_ is what you choose?”

“I thought you liked golf,” I say.

“I like _playing_ golf. I don’t especially enjoy _watching_ golf,” she explains. “If I want to have a little afternoon nap on the sofa, I’ll put on cricket or golf.”

“All right, then,” I say, and continue flipping.

“It’s the commentators. They’re always speaking in hushed tones,” she says, imitating how golf commentators talk now. “As if they’re out on the course with the players and they’re worried they might disturb them when in actuality they’re in a bloody booth.”

I’m laughing now, and stop on a show where they’re remodeling someone’s entire house because the contractors they hired messed everything up.

“Would you ever want a house?” she asks me.

“Maybe one day,” I say. I would love a house. If I could have someone to share it with, I mean. Someone like Guinevere. And the little daughter in my dream. “I always thought I’d design my own house someday.”

I’ve never told that to anyone. She now knows several things about me and my life that no one else knows. This could be very bad after Day 60. That never even occurred to me.

But she really doesn’t seem the vindictive sort. And it’s not like I seem to be able to control what comes out of my mouth around her, anyway.

“That would be brilliant,” she says. “What would it look like?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I like those big old stone mansions, but I also like the ultra-modern deals that are all square and full of windows. And I like Frank Lloyd Wright’s work, too, you know, integrating the design with its environment.” I think I might be rambling.

“So, then, you have no idea, is that what you’re saying?” she asks, turning to smile up at me.

“Essentially, yes,” I say. Then I lean down and kiss her because she’s right there. I intend for it to be a small kiss, but she has other ideas, turning slightly and pushing closer when I try to pull away.

After almost losing it yesterday, I must take care to pay attention today. There aren’t any lost hikers to interrupt us this time.

But she feels so good in my arms. She tastes so good on my tongue. Her fingers in my hair feel so good.

“Guinevere,” her name falls from my lips in between kisses, just a breath. A prayer. I tighten my arms around her, holding her as close as I dare and certainly closer than I should.

Then she surprises me yet again, kissing down my neck a bit, then back up to my ear.

Please, not my ear. It’s my weak spot. They are. Both of them. It doesn’t matter which one, just… oh, there it is.

I bite down on my lower lip to stop myself from groaning as she nibbles the edge of my ear, then flicks her tongue over it, soothing the spot she’s nipped.

She needs to stop. She needs to not learn that I will quite literally do anything she asks, give her anything she wants if she keeps doing exactly what she’s doing right now.

“Oh… stop…” I croak.

“Sorry,” she says, almost whispering, kissing my lips again.

“Don’t be,” I say. “It was just… too good.”

And now it’s out.

“Oh?” she asks, still kissing me. Then she lifts her head. “Someone has sensitive ears, then? Hmm. I shall have to remember that.”

I drop my head back on the pillows, groaning. She pushes herself higher to reach my lips again. “I’ll behave, I promise,” she says. “For now, anyway.” She kisses my nose, then my lips. “Mmm, one more,” she says, and then we are lost in each other again, tongues exploring, lips sliding.

She’s going to be my death. Or my doom. I’m slowly climbing the volcano, a willing sacrifice, ready to hurl myself in.

 

xXx

 

I wind up staying for supper as well. We order in pizza, which she insists on buying, stubborn little thing. A phone call from Sefa ended our snogging session (thank you, Sefa), and we somehow wind up playing games. We play gin rummy, which she wins. She tries to teach me chess, but I kept trying to turn it into checkers, so she gave up. I teach her how to play poker, which she turns out to be terrible at because she can’t keep a straight face. That’s not a problem for me. I’ve had two years of keeping my emotions in check, two years of not giving things away and playing everything close to the vest.

Of course now she’s taking all that and stripping it raw, exposing every nerve I have to her gentle care.

I don’t get to tuck her in again tonight, but that’s just as well. Just being near her bed gives me ideas.

Hell, just being near _her_ gives me ideas. All kinds of ideas, ideas that I never thought I’d ever have.

Ideas I have no business having at all.


	24. Day 23

I think I’ll send Guinevere some more flowers. I’m just a few blocks from my florist, so I think I’ll stop in there before I return to work from yet another in a seemingly-endless string of planning meetings.

I do have to say that I’m pleasantly surprised that Father has been letting me go to these things alone. Maybe he does actually trust my judgment.

Or maybe he hates all this paper-pushing and decision-making as much as I do. It wouldn’t be so bad if these people could actually _make_ a decision about anything. It comes with doing a project with the city, though. You always have 23 layers of people to go through to finally get to someone who makes enough money to say “yes” or “no.” I never understood why we can’t just deal with _that_ person directly.

Makes a man’s head hurt. And it’s not as if I don’t already have enough stress.

I park in front of Forget-Me-Not Floral and head inside.

Most of the time I just call my orders in, but I’ve stopped in once or twice. Hunith has a mind like a trap, however, so she always remembers me.

Except I don’t see her.

“Hello? Hunith?”

“I know that voice…” her voice drifts from somewhere in back. Hunith emerges, a pair of very thick scissors in her hand. “I knew it. Hello, Arthur, how are you, dear?” she smiles at me and sets the scissors on the counter.

“Good, Hunith, how are you this morning?” I ask, leaning on the counter.

“Excellent, as always. Been a little slow this morning, but it is a Monday morning after all. I think everything and everyone is generally pretty slow on a Monday morning.”

“Except for you,” I chuckle.

“Except for me,” she grins and nods, tucking a loose strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. “What can I help you with this morning?”

“I need some new shoes, actually,” I say, keeping a carefully straight face.

“Oh, hush, you,” she laughs. “I meant what specific _kind_ of flower arrangement are you looking for today, silly.”

Of course I knew that. But she would think something was wrong if I wasn’t cheeky with her.

“Oh, _that,_ ” I say, as if I’d truly had no idea. “Not sure yet. Can I have a look around?”

“Of course you can. So how is your special lady, then? What was her name, Guinevere?”

“Yes.”

“Pretty name.”

“Yes, I think so, too. She’s very good. Twisted her ankle on Saturday, though.” I stroll around, looking in the giant cooler at the various arrangements inside. There are also tall black pots with loose roses and greens and other kinds of flowers of which I don’t know the names.

“Oh, poor thing. She owns that jewelry shop on Seventh, correct?”

Nothing slips by her. “Yep.”

“I’ve heard good things about her work. Never been myself, obviously, but I hear her jewelry is lovely.”

“Why obviously?”

“Oh, what’s a plain old widow like me going to do with fancy new jewelry?” She waves her hand dismissively at me.

“I don’t know, wear it?”

“Pssh. Even when my Balinor was alive, I never went in much for adornments. I just surround myself with flowers and I feel good,” she waves her arms around at her shop.

This is why I like coming here. Hunith is exactly what she seems. She doesn’t have to pretend she’s someone she’s not.

She’s rather like my Guinevere in that way.

 _My_ Guinevere? Where the bloody hell did that come from?

“See anything that grabs you, dear?”

“Hmm?” I was staring blankly at the cooler. “Oh, um, not really, actually, no offense intended. I’m just not sure what I want today.”

“Something in the ‘get well soon’ area, maybe?”

“I guess; that, and ‘thinking of you,’ I think.”

She looks thoughtfully at me for a moment. It feels like she can see into my head and into my heart. “She’s got you quite flummoxed, this one,” she says finally, smiling.

“You could say that,” I admit, running my hand through my hair. Because it _is_ true.

“Come see what I’ve been working on back here,” she says, waving me behind the counter. “Your young lady is an artist, yes?”

“Yes,” I say, following her back and through a door into a small workroom.

“I’ve been studying Japanese flower arranging for a few weeks now. It’s called Ikebana,” she tells me, pointing to a few arrangements on a table.

“These are amazing, Hunith,” I say, studying each one in turn. “It seems to be more about form… and line. Overall shape. Flowers as art instead of decoration.”

“Very good, Arthur. But of course, you’re an artist, too, aren’t you?” she says, smiling at me like I was her star pupil. Or as if she was my proud mother.

That’s a new feeling.

“I like these a lot,” I say.

“Do you think your Guinevere would like one of these?” she asks softly.

There it is again. _My_ Guinevere. “She would. Very much, I think.”

“Pick one, then.”

I look up at her. “You’re sure?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t, Arthur. You’re one of my best customers. But more than that, you’re a nice young man with a good heart. You actually rather remind me of my son, in a strange way.”

“Really?” She’s mentioned her son once or twice. I don’t really know much about him other than he’s a doctor somewhere.

“It’s odd, though. You look nothing like him and I don’t think you really have a lot in common with him, but… I think the two of you would get on quite well.”

“Maybe we’ll cross paths sometime,” I say. I’m still studying the three arrangements; trying to decide which one she would like best.

“Have you chosen?”

“I think… this one,” I say, pointing to one in a shiny dark brown oval vase, wide and low, like a fat disc with a hole in the top. There’s a large leaf coming out of it with three flowers at different heights, yellow and orange and yellow again. There’s also a long twisty piece of wood sticking out at an angle.

“Good choice. I like how that one turned out,” she says. “This is a staghorn fern,” she tells me, brushing her fingers on the big green leaf. It does rather look like antlers. “These are lilies, and this is a twisted willow branch.”

“How do you get it to twist like that?” I ask. It’s very cool.

“It just grows that way,” she says, chuckling at me. “Let’s get you a card and ring you up, shall we?” She picks up the vase, but then we hear a customer enter, so she sets it back down. “Not ready to show these to the general public yet,” she says, winking at me.

“Our secret,” I say, following her out.

I pick a card and tap my chin, thinking of what to write while she helps the other customer. He’s just buying roses.

_Thank you for a great weekend. Looking forward to another, hopefully this time without injury. Hope your ankle is feeling better. Yours, Arthur_

 

xXx

 

Half an hour after I get back to work, my mobile rings.

“Hello,” I answer, smiling already.

“Oh, Arthur, this is so lovely!” she exclaims, not even saying hello. “I just love it, thank you.”

“You are quite welcome,” I say. “It’s called—”

“Ikebana, yes, I know. I didn’t know any flower shops in Camelot did anything like this.”

Of course she would know what it is. She has shelves and shelves of art books crammed into that small apartment of hers. There’s bound to be one on flower arranging in there.

“Officially, they don’t. Not _yet_ , anyway,” I say.

“Oh, well, look at you with your connections,” she says, pretending to be impressed.

“Yes, posh, I know,” I say, chuckling.

“Now, I would _never_ accuse you of such a thing,” she says, quite unconvincingly.

“No, of _course_ not. How is your ankle?”

“Getting better. Sefa’s not letting me do much walking around, you’ll be pleased to hear.”

“Good job, Sefa,” I say.

“Will I see you tonight?” she asks.

I sigh. “Probably not. I promised Leon I’d help him set up his new entertainment system, and he promised me food. And beer. _After_ everything’s working, of course,” I laugh.

“Well, yeah, you don’t want to get pissed and then try to hook up a bunch of wires. That would be bad,” she says. “Tell Leon hello for me.”

“Will do.” Huh. She didn’t whine or complain about me spending time with a friend instead of her. Nice.

“Is Gwaine going to be helping as well?”

“God, I hope not. I think he actually took an extra shift at the restaurant, now that I think about it, so he’s working tonight.”

“Oh,” she says. “Maybe I’ll go visit him, then. See if Sefa wants to grab a bite after work.”

“I’m sure he’d love that,” I say. “I’ll call you later if it’s not too late, okay?”

“Okay. Have a good time,” she says. She sounds like she means it, too.

“You, too.”

“Thanks again for the flowers, Arthur.”

“You’re welcome, Guinevere.”

 

xXx

 

It’s nearly 11 when I get home. I sent Guinevere a text earlier, a photo of Leon’s gigantic new flat screen and sound system. She at least pretended to be impressed.

I missed her tonight. That’s new, too. Usually I like a little time away, but I actually missed her.

It didn’t help that Leon was prying. And still gushing about Guinevere. I almost slipped up and told him what Father said on Friday. That would have been bad, because he would have agreed with Father. Not that he said it in Guinevere’s presence, obviously, but he would have agreed with the nature of the message.

Not something I want to deal with from my best friend. I mean, I know I’m a dickhead. I don’t need people to remind me of it.

I undress and get ready for bed. Just before I lay down, I grab my mobile.

_Just got home a couple of minutes ago. Wanted to say goodnight._

I plug in my phone and am just about to switch off the light when my phone beeps at me.

_Sweet dreams._

I’m exhausted, but somehow I know that if I have any dreams, they’ll be sweet now.

My last thought before I drift off to sleep is that it would be really nice to just hold her in my arms right now.


	25. Day 24

_A: I’m stopping at Hero’s and bringing supper. What kind of sandwich do you want?_

_G: Yum. Club sandwich, please. And crisps. I don’t keep any in my house ’cause I’ll eat them all._

_A: Kind?_

_G: Just the plain salty kind._

_A: May as well get the meal, then. What kind of drink?_

_G: Diet whatever._

_A: You’re not still in the shop, are you? It’s nearly half 5._

_G: As far as you know, I’m not._

_A: GO UPSTAIRS AND REST._

_G: Shouting will get you nowhere. :)_

_A: please?_

_G: Better. Going now. But it’s because I’ve finished what I was doing, NOT because you told me to._

_A: As long as you’re going._

_G: You’re not the boss of me._

_A: I’ll see you soon, Boss Lady._

I tuck my mobile into my pocket, chuckling as I climb into my car. Guinevere had mentioned something earlier today about dinner, so I thought I’d bring some over. After stopping home and changing clothes.

I hate suits and ties. Gwen always tells me how “dashing” I look in them, but I much prefer my jeans and t-shirts.

She was complaining that her ankle felt a little worse again today, so that’s why I was harping on her to go rest. I didn’t think she should have worked yesterday, but it’s like she said: I’m not the boss of her.

She is very clearly the one in charge. It makes my head spin sometimes. I’ve had two years of calling the shots, being in complete control, orchestrating every move, every word, and then – BAM – all she does is look at me with those soft brown eyes, and I become completely unhinged. All my careful planning, my carefully-rehearsed lines and speeches: gone.

She says she’s being patient with me; that she’s happy to move at my pace. She makes me believe that I’m the one calling the shots, when I think we both know that if she pushed with even one little finger, I would topple over like a house of cards.

I park and walk into the sandwich shop, order our food, and head back out, over to Gwen’s. My car could almost go there by itself, I think.

Inside, I find her standing in the kitchen, taking some ibuprofen.

“You overdid,” I say, kissing her hello.

“Maybe,” she says. It’s as close to an admission as I’m going to get. “Let’s eat in the living room so I can put my foot up.”

“Okay.” I lift her in my arms and carry her the short distance to the living room.

“Arthur!” she squeals, laughing. “This really isn’t necessary.”

“I know. Don’t care.” She kisses my cheek as I set her on the couch.

“At least sit up here with me this time,” she says, scooting her feet in. “See, they’re still up.”

“Very well,” I sigh, but I can’t keep my smile away as I sit down on the couch.

We chat about our day, very normal and domestic. Again. I realize I’m more comfortable with her than any of the others. Even Elena. And I was pretty comfortable with her. Not keeping-my-own-toothbrush-at-her-flat comfortable, but pretty comfortable.

I could see keeping a toothbrush here. It’s troubling. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my shoes sitting just inside the door beside hers. The simple, almost thoughtless tableau makes my heart thump in a very strange way.

I peek over at Guinevere. She really likes crisps. I didn’t know this. She eats them with relish, savoring each one, licking the salt from her fingers (that’s the best part).

“What?”

Busted. “You really like those,” I say, chuckling now.

“Yeah, that’s what I said before: I can’t keep them in my house. I would eat them and eat them and before you know it…” she puffs her cheeks out and extends her arms out on either side of her body, bent at the elbows, indicating a round shape.

I have to laugh. “It wouldn’t be _that_ bad… would it?”

“You saw me eating just this tiny bag, you tell me,” she says. Then she pointedly eyes my bag of crisps.

“Back off,” I say, clutching them dramatically to my chest. I think I crush about half of them, and she laughs.

“Now you have _small_ crisps,” she giggles.

 

xXx

 

After dinner is finished and the empty wrappers stuffed in the bin (which was full, so I emptied it and told her I’d take it down with me when I left. What have I become?), I settle back onto the sofa by her feet again.

She pouts at me. “I want to see your ankle,” I say, pulling her fuzzy purple feet into my lap. I start to take her slipper off and she protests.

“No, don’t do that…”

“Why not?”

“They probably smell,” she says, biting her lip. She’s embarrassed. I don’t think I’ve seen her embarrassed by anything yet.

Well, except for my father’s display of impeccable tact last Friday.

“I don’t mind,” I say, removing her slipper now. I really don’t. Feet smell sometimes. She works, she wears shoes, it happens. So what?

And they don’t smell anyway. “They don’t smell, so you can relax,” I say. “Now let me see.”

I prod her ankle and foot gently. The swelling is down, and there’s no bruising. I think mainly it’s just tender and overworked.

I run my thumb down her ankle, around that large knobby bone on the outside, and down to her heel, and she groans softly.

“Was that a good sound or a bad sound?” I ask.

“Good.”

“Do you have some lotion? Something that’s not going to make my hands smell all flowery?” Almost a stupid question. Of _course_ she has lotion. I’ve never met a woman who didn’t.

She laughs. “Go check the bathroom cupboard.”

I’m a little surprised she’s letting me go forage. Most girls would be worried about what I might find in there, as if something like a box of tampons is going to make me run screaming for the hills.

I find a bottle of regular old lotion, no fancy scent at all. Coincidentally, it’s sitting beside a box of tampons, which makes me chuckle, for some odd reason. I grab the bottle and set it on the counter. May as well make use of the room while I’m here.

So I’m about to sit on the couch with my girlfriend and rub her foot (probably both feet, if I am honest) while watching telly.

It’s almost like we’re a normal couple. It’s both comforting and terrifying all at once. Go with comforting; push the terrifying back for now.

“Here we are,” I say, walking back out.

“Thought you got lost,” she says.

“Didn’t you hear the flush? I even washed my hands and everything,” I say, waggling my fingers at her.

“I do appreciate that, thank you,” she says. She has the remote control in her hand. “Do you watch _Undead Zone_?”

“Yeah,” I say, as though it should be obvious. I take her injured foot in my lap and squirt some lotion in my hand. “I’m actually recording it at home.”

“Good. Now you won’t have to watch it,” she says, setting the remote down. “Oh, that feels good,” she says when I start massaging her foot.

“Let me know if I hurt you,” I say quietly.

“Oh, you’ll know,” she says.

I try to watch the show, but I am distracted by her skin. She rolled the leg of her jeans up some for me, and her ankle, foot, and leg is just as soft and smooth as her hands and face. I have to stop myself from sliding my hands up her calf beneath the leg of her jeans.

Do not think about how other parts of her might feel. Just don’t. It’s bad enough I’m getting slightly turned on just by her ankle.

This must be what men in the 1800s must have felt like. I laugh at the thought before I can stop myself.

“What’s funny?” she asks. The TV is showing a commercial right now for some insurance company, so I can’t blame that.

“Myself,” I admit. “I’m admiring your ankles over here like some sort of creeper,” I say, laughing again.

“So that’s what does it for you? Ankles?” she smirks at me.

“No, not really,” I say. “It’s hard to explain the way my brain works sometimes.”

“I believe that,” she says.

“Ha ha. What I mean is, it won’t be funny if I explain it.” I take her other foot now and start on it.

“You don’t have to do that one,” she says, but I can tell she’s not really going to stop me.

“Don’t want it feeling left out, you know.”

She smiles and settles back again. Then she cocks her head to the side and looks at me. “Try explaining. I’m curious now.”

Just now? She’s _always_ curious. And I have a problem telling her no. “Well, you know, like, 200 years ago when people were dressed from their neck to their toes and showed almost no skin?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it was a big deal to see a lady’s ankle, right? Scandalous, even.”

“Okay, I’m with you so far…”

“Well, then… okay, don’t think I’m strange or anything—”

“Too late.”

“Ha. But, like I said, I was admiring your ankles, and suddenly the thought just popped in my head that this must have been what it felt like for a man back then. To be a little… excited by the sight of an ankle…”

I now officially suffer from verbal diarrhea.

“Excited?” she asks, raising her eyebrows at me.

I groan, and drop my head back. “I did warn you,” I say. “And it’s not _really_ your ankles. It’s more your skin.” The only way out is forward. No going back now. The words are out; can’t take them back. “It’s just really soft.” My fingers slide along her ankle, wanting to illustrate my point.

“Oh,” she says quietly. Is she blushing? I think she is.

She’s so pretty when she does that.

I think it is a good thing I’m recording this show, because I haven’t really been paying attention to it.

I want to kiss her. I need to. I would kiss the delicate foot cradled in my hands right now, but I resist, since she was concerned about the nonexistent smell.

Instead I shift slightly, mindful of her injured ankle, and creep over to her, crawling across her body in an almost predatory fashion.

“Hi,” she says when I reach my destination. She’s grinning at me.

“Hello,” I answer. Then I claim her lips as my prize, though I’ve done nothing to earn them. She wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me closer, and I collapse a little over her.

“Sorry,” I mumble between kisses. I’m probably crushing her.

“It’s fine,” she says, her fingers in my hair. She moves one hand to my ear, caressing it between her fingers and thumb.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” I groan.

“Mmm-hmm,” she confirms.

I groan again. I’m lost. Gone. She’s bewitched me without using sorcery, made me her slave without using chains.

A little voice inside my head tells me that I’m almost halfway through my time with her. I tell that voice to shut it.

I’m lost and I do not want to be found.


	26. Day 25

“Oh, my God, Arthur, it’s so cute!” Guinevere exclaims quietly into the phone this afternoon.

“What is?” I ask. I think I have an idea about what’s happened, though.

“Percival came into the shop and surprised Sefa!”

Yep. I knew he was due in town just for today before he has to go to Mercia this weekend.

He also sent me a text last night asking for the address of the shop. I replied this morning.

“That’s brilliant,” I say, smiling. “How did it go?”

“He was so sweet, it was really…”

“Cute?”

“Yeah. I was out front when he came in, so I got to see the whole thing,” she explains. She sounds almost giddy.

“Sefa was looking through the mail, which had just arrived a few minutes before, and she didn’t really glance up because I was out there as well. He waved hello to me, and I was smiling so big I think my face nearly split.”

I have a very clear picture of this in my mind. I’d like to see that smile aimed at me sometime.

“Then he walked over to where Sefa was still flipping through envelopes and just said, ‘Hey.’ Just like that, very soft. Well, you know him better than I do, you know how he is.”

I do, indeed. “What happened? What did she do?”

“She dropped all the envelopes on the floor. She knew his voice immediately, even just from that one word.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t ‘sense’ he was there.”

“She was distracted by the mail,” Gwen laughs. “I asked her.”

“Oh,” I say, laughing, too.

“I guess they’ve been talking every night and texting during the day whenever they can. So that’s why she knew his voice so well.”

“So what happened?”

“Sefa just stared a minute and finally said, ‘Hi.’ She looks so tiny next to Percival, it’s so adorable.”

“I imagine so,” I chuckle.

“Then he said, ‘You _are_ Sefa, right?’ and I about died laughing. Sefa just giggled and said that she was. Then he asked her if she’d eaten lunch yet.”

“Had she?”

“No, she hadn’t. She glanced over at me and I just mouthed _GO_ at her, waving my hand frantically. Sefa doesn’t have a lot of experience with dating,” she explains.

“And didn’t you say she was a bit shy?”

“Yes, she is. So finally she snaps out of her shock and she tells him that she’d love to have lunch with him. Then he asks _me_ if it’s all right if she goes. Of course I said yes. In fact, I told her to take as long as she wants.”

“That’s nice of you,” I say. I probably would have done the same thing. “That’s not going to make you too busy though, there by yourself, is it?”

“I’m fine, Arthur. My ankle feels a lot better today, thanks to you, I think, and Wednesdays are always a bit slow. I do have a stool out here, so I’m not standing all the time.”

“Good.”

“Oh, but I’m just getting to the best part of my story. Sefa grabbed her purse and walked out from behind the counter to walk out with Percival. He took her hand, bent down and kissed it, and then held it as they walked out. I thought she was going to melt into a puddle right there on my floor. _I_ almost melted watching them.”

“Believe it or not, Percival doesn’t date much. He’s a little shy, too. And now that he’s a bit famous, it just makes it harder for him. So I’m actually surprised he did that,” I say. “But if they’ve been talking on the phone every night, I suppose it’s not like they’re _really_ meeting for the first time.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, a little wistfully. “I hope they’re having fun.”

“I’m sure they are. _I_ hope she doesn’t mind him getting interrupted by fans while they’re trying to have lunch,” I say. I’ve been out with Percival since he started getting recognized. Sometimes people leave him alone; sometimes they don’t give him a moment’s peace. He really handles it very well, I have to give him that. I don’t know if I could be that gracious with people constantly wanting my attention like that.

“Do you think they’ll wind up in the tabloids?” Gwen asks.

I realize that we’ve been talking for a while now and she hasn’t been interrupted by a customer. She’s right: Wednesdays are pretty dead.

“Maybe. Depends on who sees them and how scandalously they’re behaving,” I chuckle. I can’t imagine Percival doing _anything_ scandalous.

“Sefa doesn’t have a scandalous bone in her body,” Gwen laughs.

“I was just thinking the same thing about Percival.”

“But you should have seen the way he was looking at her, Arthur,” she says, suddenly serious again.

“Good?”

“Well, um, it kind of reminded me of the way you look at me sometimes.”

I look at her a certain way? I was unaware of this.

“Sometimes?” I ask carefully.

“You know, when you’re not freaking out about whatever demon happens to be freaking you out at any given time,” she says lightly. “When you forget your problems and your worries and just let yourself be with me.”

“Oh,” I say. I don’t know what else to say. Her words sting a little, even though I know she doesn’t mean them to. And I do deserve to be stung.

“It’s all right, Arthur, I’m not trying to make you feel bad, honest.”

Darling, I don’t need any help at all in that department. “I know,” I say softly. “You know it’s nothing to do with you, right?” I know she knows. I just need confirmation right now. I already feel bad enough; I don’t need to damage her ego just because she’s tangled up in my fucked-up life.

“I know that. I just wish I could help you. I wish you could find a way to tell me what’s going on in there.”

“You _do_ help me, honest. More than you know.” This is 100% true. “Just you being you helps me…” I trail off, because I don’t know how else to describe it. “If I can find a way to help you understand, I will.” I’ll try. I think. I hope.

I hear the sound of the bells on the door. “You have a customer,” I say.

“I do. I’ll call you later,” she says softly.

 

xXx

 

I’m leaving work, wondering what to do with my evening. Wondering what excuse I’m going to use to go see Guinevere or coerce her to come and see me. Wondering if I _need_ an excuse anymore.

I haven’t heard from her since around 2:30 when she sent me a text to tell me that Sefa had texted her to see if she minded if she took the rest of the afternoon to spend time with Percival.

I hope things work out for them. Percival is one of the best blokes I know, and he should be with someone sweet and genuine like Sefa.

That’s right. Sefa was hugely pregnant in that dream I had. _He’s a big boy. But of course, look at his father._ Was that what she said? I think it was. Why is that dream still so vivid?

I shake the memory of that dream away and walk to my car. My phone buzzes. It’s still on vibrate, I realize.

_G: Raging headache. Going home to crawl into a bubble bath and my bed._

Shit. I really wanted to see her. I’m still feeling kind of rattled from the turn our conversation took earlier this afternoon.

_A: Feel better. Let me know if you need anything._

Like if you need me to come over and help you with your bath…

Stop it.

No thinking about Guinevere in her bath while driving. That could end badly.

I find myself driving past her shop and flat on my way home like some lovesick teenager, and I wonder for the millionth time what I’m going to do with myself.

She was right, though, when she said that there are times when I forget my troubles and just be with her, in the moment. Like last night, when I decided I needed to kiss her. I just crawled over her and did it, no thinking, no analyzing whether or not it was something I _should_ do. I wanted to do it, so I did it. Of course, when my hand accidentally slipped under her shirt in the back, I came back to earth. I just touched a little spine, nothing else, but damn it, now I know that the skin on her back is consistent with the rest of her.

Back to earth and back to reality and back to this damnable curse.

I pull up to my building and walk up to my condo. I’m still puzzling over the fact that I want to see her more and more. I didn’t see her Monday night and I missed her. I won’t see her tonight because she’s not feeling well. I won’t see her tomorrow night because she’s going dress shopping with Sefa.

Lunch tomorrow? No. I have a lunch meeting. I hate those. What’s the point of having a meeting and lunch at the same time? That’s working when you’re supposed to be taking a break. I do always try to cut out early on days when I have a lunch meeting, just to balance it out.

I toe my shoes off and flop on my couch. I pull my phone out.

_A: Lunch Friday?_

She can reply whenever she wants. I need food. Do I have food? Of course I have food. Do I have food I want to eat? Do I have to get up off my couch to go get said food?

I know the answer to the last question is _yes._ I rummage around my kitchen, lamenting the fact that the noodle salad we made a week and a half ago is all gone.

Of course, it would also be a week and a half old, which wouldn’t be good.

Toasted cheese sandwich it is, then. Think I’ll have a beer, too.

I just put the sandwich in the pan and I hear my mobile beep. I shamelessly run for it, knocking my shin on the coffee table in the process.

_G: Why not tomorrow?_

_A: Lunch meeting. So Friday?_

_G: Yes._

I check my sandwich and flip it. This is about the extent of my cooking skills, sadly. Still hoping Guinevere will change that.

_A: Feeling any better?_

I know I won’t be going over there, but I do want her to feel better.

_G: Getting there. Are you having cup-o-noodles since you’re all alone?_

_A: Toasted cheese sandwich._

_G: Please tell me you’re using the stove and not an iron._

I laugh. I hadn’t even considered that possibility.

_A: One of the few things I can cook._

_G: I had a bowl of soup. Homemade._

She went home and made soup? I thought she had a headache.

_A: You made soup?_

_G: It was in the freezer. I make a big pot and freeze servings for myself._

_A: That’s really clever._

_G: I’m in the bathtub right now._

Oh, dear. Why did she have to tell me that? I recover my senses in time to slide my sandwich onto a plate before it burns, thankfully, and take my plate and my bottle and go back to the living room to flip on the telly.

_G: Did I lose you there?_

She knows. She knows I’m over here torturing myself with mental images.

_A: Just had a small heart attack, but I’m okay now._

_G: LOL_

Yeah, she totally knows. My phone beeps again, and I see she’s sent me a photo. I’m afraid to look. She wouldn’t do that to me, would she?

I look.

It’s her ankle, propped up against the edge of the tub.

_A: Old school porn?_

I can’t resist. I’m laughing like an idiot over here.

_G: I know what you like, baby._

Oh, God.

_A: I almost sprayed beer across my living room._

I’m coughing, laughing, collapsed on my couch. She’s terrible. She’s wonderful.

Inspired, I yank up my trouser leg, snap a photo, and send it.

_G: You’re a dirty boy. Nice knee, though._

_A: Pushing the envelope._

_G: Where did you get that scar?_

She can see that? I check the photo. Oh. I guess so.

_A: Fell off my bike when I was a kid. Hit a tree stump and took a small chunk of skin out._

_G: Good job._

_A: Thank you._

_G: I need to get out of the tub. I’m turning into a prune._

_A: Good night, Guinevere. Hope your head feels better._

_G: Me too, thanks._

Here goes. Fingers are typing before my brain can tell them to stop.

_A: Miss you._

_G: I miss you, too. Sleep well, please._

Please, she says. She really cares. She doesn’t want me to be unhappy or have a bad night’s sleep.

_A: I’ll try. :)_

Even when she’s not feeling well, she’s still concerned for me. It hurts my heart. But somehow, I know I will sleep well, because she wishes it so.


	27. Day 26

Guinevere is out shopping with Sefa. I chatted with her briefly this afternoon, but we were both busy most of the afternoon. I haven’t seen her since Tuesday. I don’t like that, and I don’t like that I don’t like that.

So confused.

Well, not _entirely_ confused.

I’m not stupid. I’m in denial. There’s a difference.

I’m also bored. Leon and Gwaine are out doing things that I don’t especially want to be a part of. Percival is en route to Mercia. I’m so bored I consider calling my father to see if he has dinner plans.

I don’t, though. I’m bored and I’m in denial, but I’m not completely insane.

Percival and Sefa. Apparently they had quite the day yesterday. I’ve only gotten to hear bits and pieces because I haven’t talked to Gwen much and I don’t want to bother Percival, but he finally took her home around midnight. She even had dinner with him at his mum’s house.

Guinevere told me that Sefa gave him a braided leather bracelet that she made. She said that it is to keep him safe. It’s not enchanted or anything, so it wouldn’t be cheating or giving him an advantage on the jousting field. It’s more symbolic than anything. Sefa’s not powerful enough to fashion such an enchantment anyway, Gwen said. Apparently her father was quite the warlock, but apparently he also went a bit mad with his power and wound up institutionalized for it. That may have something to do with why Sefa chose not to develop her powers. It would certainly put me off.

They have special places for Druids and other people with magic who, shall we say, lose track of their powers. These places are run by Druids and most non-magic folk don’t even know where they are.

Percival told her that he would always wear the bracelet because it is from her. Can’t say I blame him.

I should find some food.

I should order myself a pizza. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.

I pick up my mobile, and there’s a light flashing. When did I miss a text? Must have been when I was in the loo.

Guinevere’s sent me a photo. She’s found a dress. It’s purple. She looks really good.

_A: I like it._

I decide to make another attempt to watch _Undead Zone_ from Tuesday night, since I missed most of it. Then I order myself a pizza and wait.

_G: Is it too formal?_

I have no idea. I look again. Still no idea.

_A: Looks fine to me._

_G: What are you wearing?_

I snort. She must have heard me, because she texts again immediately.

_G: I mean to the dinner!_

_A: Suit and tie. Much like what I wear to work._

_G: Okay, that gives me a better idea of what to look for._

It does? I’ll take her word for it.

Ten minutes later I receive another photo. This time the dress is blue.

_A: I like this one, too._

_G: You are no help. Which do you like better?_

I check the first one again.

_A: I think this one._

_G: Okay._

_A: The socks are a nice touch, too. :)_

_G: Shut it._

The police captain has just put a hatchet through a zombie’s head on the telly when my pizza arrives. Perfect timing.

Of course the pizza is from the same place that Guinevere and I got our pizza on Sunday night, so now it just makes me think of sitting in her cozy apartment, feeling all warm and domestic, and I miss her again.

Damn it.

Another dress? This one is black.

_A: Nice, but I still like the blue better._

_G: Probably will be a lot of black, too, huh?_

_A: Maybe. I really have no idea._

_G: You’re such a man._

_A: You like that about me._

_G: I do._

Another ten minutes, another dress. Dark red this time. There is shoulder. I like shoulder.

_A: New favorite._

_G: Really?_

_A: Definitely._

It’s even my favorite color. I think I even have a tie that’s the same red.

Wow. That’s a new thought: considering matching my tie to her dress. Never done that before.

Leon would certainly be impressed. He always dresses impeccably. Not that I’m a slouch; I know how to dress. I have to know how to make myself look as good as I can. But even on my best day, he always seems to look better, the wanker. Even in jeans and a t-shirt, he looks immaculate.

I’d wager he irons his underpants.

_G: Got the red dress._

I look at the clock. It’s still early. Maybe I can convince her to come over.

_A: Done shopping, then?_

_G: Of course not. Sefa and I are going to grab some dinner, then I need to find shoes._

Oh. Bugger.

_A: Okay. Have fun._

_G: You’re disappointed._

How does she know that?

_A: I still miss you._

I’m so pathetic. She should take pity on me and come over.

What the hell is _wrong_ with me? I shouldn’t miss her this much. It’s Thursday. I saw her Tuesday. This has never been a problem before.

_G: You’re sweet. I miss you, too. But I also need shoes. You could come help…_

_A: That’s all right. I’m eating pizza and watching a show I was too distracted to watch on Tuesday._

_G: LOL, your own fault._

_A: Have fun, really. Tell Sefa hello._

_G: Hi back from Sefa. See you tomorrow for lunch. 12:30._

_A: Wouldn’t miss it. Don’t overdo it on your ankle._

_G: Yes, Mum._

I hope she doesn’t think she needs to send me pictures of all the shoes she tries on. Though knowing her, she might just to tease me about that ankle thing again.

Commercials. Fast forward.

I need to sort my shit out. It’s Day 26. Nearly halfway done. Just over a month left. That’s practically the blink of an eye.

I rub my hand over my face. Interesting. The days with Guinevere seem to fly. They’ve never gone this fast. With Vivian, they positively crawled.

They say time flies when you’re having fun. I’m definitely having fun. And I’m definitely worried.

I don’t want it to end. I really don’t. It’s killing me inside. When I’m with her she actually makes me forget about it, and she doesn’t even realize that she does it.

But it’s just a bandage covering the wound. Eventually that bandage is going to have to be torn off, and all that’s going to be left is an open wound, gaping and sore, exposed and bloody for the world to see.

A wound that I fear will not heal.


	28. Day 27

“Two?” The hostess greets us when we walk into the Rising Sun. I had greeted Guinevere quite enthusiastically outside, much to her embarrassment.

A few cars honked at us when they passed.

“Yes,” I say. “Um, we’re supposed to ask for Gwaine.”

“All right,” she says, picking up menus and leading us to a table.

We sit and I grin at her. “Sorry about that. Outside, I mean.”

She giggles. “It’s all right. You missed me, huh?”

“More than logic dictates, actually,” I say, furrowing my brow.

“Me, too,” she admits. Then, “But did you really have to dip me?”

“Caught up in the moment, sorry.”

“Hello, darlings,” Gwaine saunters up and greets us. “Lemonade?” he asks me, and I nod. “Chickadee? You having water again or are you going to order something with flavor?”

“Just water,” she chuckles. “How are you?”

“Fabulous, can’t you tell?” he grins.

“Of course,” she says, shaking her head. “Things must be going well with Leon, then.”

“He’s fantastic. I’m slowly chipping away at his structured exterior. He’ll be almost human in no time,” he says.

“Are you at least meeting him halfway?” she asks, angling her head at him. I was thinking the same thing, but she can get away with asking that kind of question better than I can, I think.

“Well… I actually… _made my bed_ this morning…”

Gwen gasps dramatically, clutching her chest, and I laugh.

“Good for you, mate. Leon’s pretty stiff, yeah, but he’s a great guy,” I say. “I’ve known him forever.”

“He is great,” Gwaine says with a small smile, and he actually looks a little wistful for a moment. Then he snaps out of it and declares that he’ll be right back with our drinks.

“They’re funny,” Guinevere says, looking over the menu. “In the mood for a burger, I think…”

“I know. Leon is so predictable and structured, and Gwaine is so…”

“Random,” she supplies.

“Yes, random. Thank you. But they balance each other. A burger does sound good.”

Gwaine returns with our drinks, takes our orders, and apologizes for being brusque (yes, he actually used the word “brusque”) because he has orders up.

I like Gwaine, but at the moment I’d rather talk to Guinevere anyway. “So tomorrow night, I think we should go bowling,” I announce rather unceremoniously.

She laughs just out of surprise. “Bowling?”

“Well, I _was_ going to take you dancing, but that’s going to have to wait until your ankle’s better.”

“My ankle is fine,” she says.

“It’s been less than a week, Guinevere. No. Don’t you like bowling?”

“It’s fine. I’m bloody awful at it, though.”

This is news. Guinevere, bad at something? I shall have to mark this down in my diary. “That’s the beauty of bowling. Even if you’re bad at it, it’s still fun.”

“Like having sex,” she blurts and immediately blushes. I don’t think she intended to say that out loud.

“I suppose there’s some truth to that,” I say, chuckling. “Some people say the same thing about pizza, too, that even when it’s bad it’s still pretty good. I don’t agree with that, though.” I redirect to diffuse any potential awkwardness. Just because this curse makes me a total dick doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be a gentleman.

“Hmm. Yeah, I agree with you, I think. I’ve had some pretty bad pizza.”

“I hate the frozen kind. It tastes like cardboard.”

“Too true,” she says.

“So bowling tomorrow night?” I ask again.

“Sure. I have plans during the day anyway, actually,” she says, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. It almost looks like she was worried about telling me she has something going on.

Gwaine arrives with our food. Gwen ordered a bacon cheeseburger and chips, and I got a double cheeseburger with fried onion strings.

I know, onion strings aren’t exactly a wise or even courteous choice when dining with a female companion, but I love them.

“Thanks, mate,” I say.

“I’ll bring you another lemonade,” he says, and scuttles away.

“Wow, he is busy,” I mutter. “So what do you have going on tomorrow afternoon?”

“I’m actually have a Skype date with my friend Mithian. She moved away last year to Berlin for a job,” she tells me.

“Wow, that’s quite a move,” I say. I had been wondering about her friends. I knew about Sefa, but she never really mentioned any others. “Was she a friend from college, or growing up, or…”

“From when we were about 15,” she says. Then she snatches a few of my onion strings. “I should have gotten these,” she remarks absently.

“What does she do?”

“She teaches English, actually,” she says. “I haven’t talked with her for a bit, and she emailed me last week. I think I had only just met you when we last talked.”

“Wow,” I say.

“Well, that’s one of the nice things with a dear old friend. Even if you don’t talk for weeks, you can pick right up where you left off when you finally do talk. She’s dying to know more about you,” she says, grinning.

“Be gentle with me,” I say. This Mithian person is going to wonder why I haven’t slept with Guinevere yet, I know it.

“Of course I will,” she says, smiling at me. Then she brushes her foot against my leg under the table.

“Sorry,” she mutters, but she blushes slightly, as if I might think she was flirting with me under the table.

I wouldn’t mind.

“No problem,” I say, casually taking a drink of my lemonade.

“What do you plan on doing with your day tomorrow?” she asks me after a bit.

“Not sure. Might take a run. Clean my house. Learn to bowl. You know, regular stuff.”

She laughs. Have I mentioned that I love hearing her laugh? I think I have.

“Should we grab a bite to eat beforehand?”

“Sure.”

“Doesn’t have to be anything fancy. We could even get pub food at the bowling alley, if you like.”

“Eh. Not sure about that. I’d be fine with Gilli’s again, even. Or that new Chinese place.”

“Mmm, we could try that.”

“What are we trying?” Gwaine appears out of nowhere to check on our meals, bring me my refill, and otherwise be nosy.

“Imperial Wok,” I say. “Have you been?”

“Oh, no,” he says very seriously, “I never eat _anywhere_ except here.”

Guinevere laughs again, and he breaks.

“Yeah, it’s really good. Make sure you try the dumplings,” he says. “How are the burgers?”

“Very good,” I say. “Well, mine is. Guinevere?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she agrees.

“Good.” He looks down at a small pager on his belt. “Gotta run.”

“Food’s up,” Guinevere chuckles.

We finish eating, chatting about normal, ordinary, wonderful things. She tells me about the pieces she’s working on. I realize that the one time I was in her shop I never really looked at the jewelry. I’ll have to make sure to take a look the next time I’m in.

Next time. I think there have only been one or two girls I’ve dated whose places of work I actually saw. And even then I didn’t just “drop in” like I did with Guinevere’s place.

Everything is different with her. Everything. I really like it, but it scares the willies out of me.

Gwaine drops off the bill, I pay it, and we walk back out into the gray.

“I think it’s going to be another rainy weekend,” I say.

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re doing something indoors on Saturday night, then,” she says.

“Oh, hey, did you want to come over on Sunday and watch the joust?” I ask. I don’t know where exactly the thought came from, but, hey, why not? I like having her at my house as much as I like being at her flat.

“Okay,” she says immediately. “We’ll make some lunch.” She grins at me. We’re at her car now.

My eyes widen a little. “What do I need to get this time?”

“I’ll send you a list,” she says, stepping in closer.

I lean back against her car and pull her to me so she is standing between my feet.

“I don’t want to go back to work,” I complain. “Friday afternoons are the worst.”

“Well, let me give you something to get you through the afternoon,” she says, leaning up against me.

I lean down and meet her lips with mine, not caring at all about the fact that we are in a parking lot.

Her lips are always so warm and soft, molding themselves perfectly to mine. I wrap my arms around her, pulling her closer still when her lips part, inviting me in.

So good. Too good. She doesn’t even care that I taste like onions. I don’t think, anyway. Doesn’t seem that way.

Oh, no. She’s got my ear. I groan into her mouth and slide my hands on her back.

“Wooooo!”

A passing idiot brings us back to earth. Probably a good thing. I loosen my grip on her and she drops back down from her tiptoes, exhaling. Then she giggles. “Whoops. Parking lot.”

“That’s not going to get me through; that’s going to distract the hell out of me for the rest of the day,” I say. She giggles more.

“Me, too.”

I smile and kiss her forehead. “We’d better get back to work.”

“Yeah.” She pulls away and gets into her car. I step back and watch her drive away.

Now where did _I_ park?


	29. Day 28

Gwaine was right: the dumplings _were_ good. I could have made a meal out of just those. But my General Tso’s chicken was also very good. So was Guinevere’s chicken with snow peas.

I did get rather an interesting fortune in my fortune cookie. It just said, “All is not yet lost.”

Guinevere’s assessment was that it was “optimistic in a rather pessimistic sort of way.”

I thought it was a strangely hopeful message for a person such as myself.

We head into the bowling alley. It’s kind of loud and kind of dark, but not very busy yet.

We get shoes, are assigned a lane, and head over.

There are four young women in the lane next to ours. Vaguely I’m aware of four sets of eyes on me as we walk over, but I ignore them. Even if I wasn’t cursed, I’m not interested.

I sit with my back to them to change my shoes, and Guinevere sits beside me to do the same. A loud whooping sound behind me just cements my assertion that these girls, who appear to be university students, are not even worth a second glance.

Too young, for one. Too loud, for another. And if they’re not drunk already, they’re well on their way.

And they’re not Guinevere. I glance over at her and she’s rolling her eyes. I chuckle.

“They couldn’t have given us a different lane?” I hear her mutter under her breath.

I lean over and kiss her cheek and then walk to the little console to enter our names in the scoring machine.

I love automatic scoring machines. A person needs a degree in calculus to figure out how to score bowling.

“Going to get a ball,” she announces, and I nod, frowning that there aren’t enough spaces for me to put _Guinevere_ in the console. So I go with _Gwen._ She can go first. I find a ball before she returns with hers, and wait, studying my fingernails, watching the family a couple of lanes over. They have two small children who are quite entertaining to watch. The youngest, a boy, uses a little ramp to roll his ball down, and it still takes forever to get there.

But he gets _so_ excited that I can’t help but smile.

“Sorry,” Guinevere apologizes, returning with a ball. It’s yellow and orange swirled. “Had trouble finding one the right weight that wasn’t ugly.”

I laugh. “It’s just a ball, Guinevere,” I say, but I’m not terribly surprised. Girls like bowling balls that are cute or otherwise decorative. The balls the four girls behind me are using are pink, pale blue, green and white swirled, and black with red glitter.

“Hush. I wanted a cute ball,” she says, setting hers next to my plain black one in the rack.

“You’re first,” I say, pointing at the overhead screen.

“Oh. Okay.” She walks back to the ball rack and picks up her ball. She starts walking towards the lane, pauses, and turns. “Don’t laugh.”

“I won’t laugh,” I say. I hope not to.

She throws the ball, and halfway down the lane, it veers into the gutter with a _thud._

She throws it completely wrong, no wonder it goes in the gutter. She retrieves her ball from the ball return, scowling, and tries again. This time she manages one pin, in the corner.

“Well, at least it didn’t go in the gutter again,” I try.

“Shut it,” she says, plopping down next to me. “All right, let’s see what you’ve got.”

“Okay,” I say, standing. I pick up my ball, walk over, and throw. I get about five pins. I look up at the screen. Yep: five.

She’s still scowling, but she’s looking sideways at the college girls, not at me. “Gotta get the rest of them now,” she says, looking at me again.

“We’ll see,” I say, picking up my ball again, wondering why she’s scowling. I walk up, and one of the girls is also walking up to throw her ball. “After you,” I say.

“No, go ahead, please, I insist,” she says. “Really,” she urges.

“Okay,” I say, a little puzzled. I go. I get three more pins.

When I turn around, the girl quickly starts making a big deal about preparing to throw her ball.

Guinevere looks like she smells something foul.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, sitting next to her.

“You really don’t notice that they’re totally checking you out?” she asks softly. “It’s pathetic.”

“I had a feeling, and it was confirmed just now. Next time I will make sure to let them go first, I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“Green is a pretty good color on you, too,” I whisper in her ear and kiss her cheek.

“It’s different this time,” she argues.

“How so?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, trying not to be amused by all this.

“We weren’t _officially_ a couple when you were all jealous,” she says. She’s right, of course. But in my mind, we were, even back then. That was Day 12.

“Yeah, but two days later we were,” I say. We went to the joust on Day 14.

She looks at me, surprised. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do,” I say. I have to keep track of the days. So, yeah, I do. “It’s your turn.”

“Keep your face and your arse pointed away from _them_ ,” she says quietly, standing.

 _Now_ I laugh.

We bowl a few more frames. She’s bloody terrible at this, just like she said. She’s also becoming increasingly irritated at the girls beside us, who have just ordered yet another round of drinks.

I take my turn, and this time I hear a “woo!” behind me as I bend forward to throw the ball.

Oh, Lord. Honestly? What are they hoping to accomplish?

I continue to ignore them, but I don’t know how long Guinevere will be able to hold out. She is normally a very patient person, obviously, but they seem to be getting under her skin. I throw my ball and pick up the spare. Nice.

I turn to head back to sit while Gwen stands to take her turn. She meets me halfway and she’s got an odd look on her face now, like she’s up to something. She takes my hand, pulls me over so I step down the one step into the seating area, and steps up on the step so we are about at eye level.

Then she winds her arms around my neck and kisses me. My arms wrap around her automatically, because that’s where they think they belong.

It’s a nice kiss. A little _too_ nice for the middle of a bowling alley.

She releases my lips and when I open my eyes, she’s got this impish grin on her face.

“What was that?” I whisper, still recovering from my surprise.

She kisses my nose. “Just marking my territory,” she says. Her eyes flicker pointedly at the group of college girls, who I suddenly realize have gone quiet.

“I suppose I prefer that to being peed on,” I chuckle. She laughs loudly, throwing her head back, still hanging on to my neck.

“Mmm, but if that’s how you want to play it…” I say, leaving the promise dangling in the air. Then I kiss her once more, quickly.

“Ooo, I am intrigued,” she says, finally releasing me.

“Your turn,” I say, stepping back but not sitting. I have a Plan. She picks up her ball, walks over, and throws. It goes into the gutter again. She turns around, scowling.

I reach down, retrieve her ball for her, and walk up. “Let me see if I can help,” I say softly, and she bites back her giggles. She knows what I’m doing.

I hand her the ball and watch as she takes it.

“Well, for starters, you’ve got the wrong fingers in the holes,” I say.

“That’s what she said,” she immediately blurts, and I start laughing.

“That’s brilliant,” I laugh. “Here,” I say, taking her hand, “ _these_ two fingers.” I take her middle and ring fingers and slide them into the holes. She’d been using her index and middle. “Thumb, obviously, back here.”

“I got that part, thanks,” she says softly.

“Now,” I say, sliding around behind her, “hold the ball up here.” I wrap my arms around her, positioning her arms to hold the ball just below her chin. “Take a few steps and throw while you step on your _left_ foot, not your right. Like this.” I slide my left foot forward, pushing hers, and guide her right arm with mine in slow motion, showing her what to do.

I notice it’s gone completely silent behind us. I also notice the warmth of her body in front of mine and the scent of her hair as it brushes my cheek.

“Try it now,” I say, whispering in her ear. I kiss her cheek and step back.

“Okay,” I hear her whisper. I think she’s a little flustered, too. I take a drink of my soda. Something cold is good right now.

She steps up, throws, and actually knocks down more than three pins. A new record. She spins around, beaming at me.

“Five, well done,” I say, smiling back.

“Thank you for your help,” she says, leaning up to kiss me again. I see her give a slightly haughty look to one of the college girls before sitting down.

Her game is markedly improved from that point on, and I feel a small sense of pride at having helped her. I get a strike, finally. I usually manage to get a lucky one or two.

Then, in the ninth frame, Guinevere manages to get a strike, one of those nail-biters where the last pin teeters for a bit before finally giving it up.

I stand and cheer for her, and she runs over and leaps into my arms, hugging my neck exuberantly. I laugh and return her hug, holding her as her feet are off the ground. I sneak an opportunity to bury my nose in her curls a little.

Just a little.

“Never got a strike before,” she giggles, a bit embarrassed by her display.

“I gathered,” I say, still chuckling at her. She’s still dangling from my neck, so I slowly release her and she slides down my torso till her toes hit the floor again.

I clear my throat and gather my wits. “Um, yeah, it’s my turn.”

“Indeed,” she says. Her mood seems improved.

I take my turn, and when I turn around, one of the college girls is saying something to Guinevere, who is appearing to listen patiently, but I can see the irritation lurking beneath.

The girl goes away when I arrive. “What was that?”

“These girls are making my PMS rear its ugly head, I swear,” she mutters under her breath.

I wisely choose to say absolutely nothing in response. I do not touch that topic. Not even with a very long stick.

“They’re all completely pissed,” she sighs. “She told me, and I quote, ‘Your boyfriend is really fit. Can I give you my number so you can give it to him if you dump him?’”

“That’s insane,” I say. That’s not even funny. That’s twisted.

“That’s too many appletinis,” she sighs. “I kind of pity them now.”

I glance over at them for just a second. “Self-inflicted,” I say. “No one’s forcing those drinks down their throats.”

“True,” she says. Then she kisses me. “I won’t break up with you. And if I do, I won’t give you her number. If she gave it to me.”

“I appreciate that. She’s not my type, anyway.” I haven’t had the luxury of having a ‘type’ in two years. But even so, the girl that was just talking to Guinevere isn’t it.

“Good,” she declares. “It’s my turn, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Last frame. Make me proud,” I say. She pecks my lips and walks up. I watch her, watching her body instead of her bowling form this time. She’s small but long-limbed and graceful. Narrow waist and nicely flared hips. She leans forward to throw. I think the last time I took the time to appreciate her nearly-bloody-perfect bum was when she got that hole in one at mini golf, when she was shaking it around. Now, watching her jeans pull tight over it as she leans forward to bowl, it’s divine.

She doesn’t pick up her spare, so she doesn’t get the bonus frame. But I don’t think she really cares, because she’s smiling at me when she walks back. “Still the best game I’ve had,” she says.

“Well, good. I’m glad I could help that come to pass,” I say. She kisses my cheek and I get up to take my turn.

I do pretty well, picking up my spare, so the pressure’s on for a strike in the extra turn.

Of course it doesn’t happen. Doesn’t matter anyway.

“You up for one more?” I ask.

“Hmm, no. These slags over here are on my last nerve, and my thumb is a little sore,” she says, rubbing her thumb a little at the joint where it meets her hand.

“Well, you do need your hands for your job,” I say, sitting beside her. I take her hand and rub the spot, massaging it gently.

“Arthur,” she says softly.

“Yes?”

“I need my hands to change my shoes as well,” she says.

“Right,” I say. I kiss her thumb and return her hand.

I am finding that I am forgetting myself with increasing frequency. I’m much more openly physically affectionate with Guinevere than I should be by this point. Yes, the little bowling lesson was _technically_ for show, to let those drunk whores know that I only have eyes for Guinevere, but… I don’t know that I _wouldn’t_ have done the same thing had they not been there.

Especially considering how terrible she was at bowling.

“Let’s get some pie or something,” she says as we walk outside. It’s not very late, and while she was ready to be done bowling, she apparently isn’t ready to be done with our evening. It’s also raining, so we huddle together in a fruitless attempt to stay dry.

“Pie?” I ask.

“Pie, cake, ice cream,” she rattles off. “Or did you miss my comment about PMS earlier?” she asks, laughing.

“I chose to be a gentleman and let it pass me by,” I say.

She chuckles and climbs into my car. I close the door and walk around to my side.

“That’s probably smart,” she says when I get in. “There’s a diner around here, I remember seeing it when we came. I’ll bet we can get pie there.”

 

xXx

 

I found out that night that Guinevere is very particular about her apple pie. That’s what she got: apple pie. But. It has to be warm, with vanilla ice cream on top, and also caramel sauce, if possible. Luckily our waitress was sweet and accommodating, and had no problem finding some caramel sauce for her.

I have to admit, it did look really good.

I had chocolate cake. I like chocolate cake. This one had a layer of mousse in the middle, too.

I park behind her building, and she looks over at me. “This was fun. I never enjoyed bowling so much before,” she smiles.

“Well, I’m glad,” I say. “Don’t forget to send me my shopping list for tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. I’m going to teach you something else to do with your noodles,” she smiles at me.

“Ah, okay.” I am curious.

“What time should I be over?” she asks.

We’re stalling again.

“Whenever you like,” I say.

She opens her mouth a second, like she’s going to say something, but then closes it. Then she tries again. “How about you let me know when you’re home from the market tomorrow, and _then_ I’ll come over.”

Part of me wonders what she was originally going to say. Another part of me thinks it knows what she was going to say.

“Sounds good,” I say. “Thumb okay?” I ask, reaching for her hand, flipping it palm-up.

“Yes, thank you,” she says softly. I hold her hand in mine a moment, softly stroking her palm with my thumb almost absentmindedly. I lift it and kiss it, then I tug gently, pulling it up around my neck as I lean over to kiss her goodnight.

Her other hand grabs my shirt, hanging on as we kiss, tongues tangling. My fingers slide on her neck and into her hair, holding her head gently, my other hand pulling at her waist, trying to bring her closer.

She reaches down and unbuckles her seatbelt. I groan and pull her closer until she’s leaning across the center console. She’s not close enough. I want her in my lap. But there’s a steering wheel in the way.

I’m losing control again.

“Arthur,” she breathes, pulling her lips away. I dive back in. “The… emergency brake is in my hip…” she manages.

“Oh,” I say, relaxing my grip on her. “Sorry.” I needed to stop anyway.

“You were getting carried away again anyway, weren’t you?” she asks, smiling softly.

“Yeah. You noticed, huh?” Is that good that she can tell? I don’t know.

“I’m starting to recognize the signs, yes,” she says.

I smile apologetically, because I don’t know what else to do.

“I’ll text you a list in the morning,” she says. Then she leans over again. “One more.”

One more. I can do that. She just wants a small one this time, though, so I keep it together. “See you tomorrow,” I say.

“Okay,” she answers, gives me one last smile, and leaves.

Almost halfway done.

I’m hanging on by my fingernails.


	30. Day 29

_2 packs noodles (brick kind, not cup), beef flavor._

_8 oz ribeye steak_

_Bag of slaw (like we got for the salad)_

_Green onions_

_Cornettos_

Cornettos? Nice try.

_A: Cornettos?_

_G: For dessert, silly._

_A: What kind?_

_G: Mint._

I like the mint ones, so that’s good.

_A: Only one steak?_

_G: Yes. Doesn’t have to be EXACTLY 8 oz, either._

_A: Okay._

_G: Anything else? I’m going to take a shower._

_A: No, I think I’ve got it._

She had to know I was going to have questions. But her list is pretty straightforward.

I miss her at the market. I found that I kept looking for her. Any time I caught a glimpse of long, dark hair, I would feel a lurch in my stomach, like, _maybe that’s her!_

It never was. Once it was even a bloke.

This is what my whole life is going to be like after Day 60.

I may have to find a different market. Or shop on a different day. Seeing her will be too painful.

Not seeing her will be too painful, as well, I think.

 

xXx

 

I shoot Guinevere a quick text after parking my car in its spot, and take my groceries up, wondering how long it’ll be before she arrives.

I’m not disappointed. She buzzes a half an hour later. She seems to look exceptionally cute today. She’s wearing her Dragons t-shirt and those sweatpant things again. I think she called them “yoga pants.” Her hair is down.

“Hi,” I say, “dressing for comfort, I see.” I lean down and kiss her hello.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she says.

“Not at all. You look really cute, actually. Cozy.” Perfect for cuddling with on the couch. Or other things on the couch.

Focus. We need to make lunch. But I still kiss her one more time.

Lunch is a stir-fry-type thing with noodles and beef and stuff. It’s really good. She makes me do more complicated things this time, like slicing the onions. She also makes me actually do the _cooking_. Heavily supervised, of course, but I still do it.

“This needs some of those snow pea pod things,” I say while we eat. I really like those, I’ve discovered.

“Yes, those would be good, too. Next time you can add those,” she says, smirking at me.

“Next time?”

“You can actually put in whatever you like. And this also works with chicken instead of beef. Just use the chicken flavored noodles.”

“Hmm. I’m glad you had me get beef, though.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

I pause, a thought occurring to me. “Could a person… use the same ingredients from that salad thing and just cook them with _this_ sauce instead of making that dressing and having it cold as a salad?” I ask.

She stares at me. “Arthur Pendragon, I am impressed,” she says. “That’s so simple it’s almost brilliant. No. That _is_ brilliant.” She smiles. She looks proud of herself, for some reason.

“I just noticed that the main ingredients were pretty similar,” I shrug.

She’s still grinning at me. “I’ll have you baking next,” she says.

“Baking? I don’t know about that. Baking is scary,” I say. Because baking _is_ scary. Measure one thing wrong and it’s all over.

I dated a baker once.

“Oh, it isn’t. You just have to follow directions,” she says dismissively. “Oh. Wait. You’re a man. Men have problems following directions.”

“Hey!” I laugh. “I know what you’re doing, and it’s working,” I add.

“Can’t reverse-psychology you, now, can I?” she chuckles.

The joust hasn’t started yet. The game is a little later today, so right now it’s just in pre-game coverage. They’re talking about Percival now, and I turn the volume higher so we can hear what they’re saying about him.

“…Henderson has been on a tear lately, just dominating the field,” the commentator is saying. “How do you think he’ll do pitted against Ethan Williams today?”

“Williams has shown himself to be Mercia’s bright star, but I still expect Henderson to win out. Williams is crafty and fast, but Henderson is surprisingly agile, despite his size.”

“But he’s a larger target, surely that must give his opponents the advantage.”

“Williams is an idiot with more ego than ability,” Guinevere mutters, shaking her head.

“Another ex of yours?” I ask, teasing her. I am fully aware of my hypocrisy.

She laughs, fortunately. “God, no. He’s just been getting lucky breaks on the field. Of his last three opponents, one had a strap that broke, another complained that the _sun_ got in his eyes, and the third sneezed in the middle of the run! What _is_ that?”

“Perce told me that there have been complaints lodged. They’re going to be investigating Williams. People are suspicious that he may be using magic to gain advantage.”

“Sounds about right to me,” she says. “How come these idiots aren’t saying anything about that?” She points her fork at the screen.

“It’s not been released yet. They don’t know.”

“…Well, all I know is that if someone the size of Percival Henderson was barreling towards me on that tank-sized horse of his, I probably would just surrender,” the second commentator says.

“And that’s exactly why you are not a professional jouster,” the first one, a former pro, replies.

They fall into typical sportscaster banter, then go to commercial.

“Should we be concerned about Percival?” Gwen asks.

“I’m always concerned about Percival. He’s my friend. But until they can prove Ethan Williams is cheating with magic, we can’t pass judgment.”

“No, but we can sure as hell hypothesize and gossip between ourselves about it. Come on, where’s your loyalty, man?” She grins at me, and I have to laugh. “You know we’re both going to be looking extra hard when Williams is up.”

“True,” I admit. I actually hope he gets caught today, before he is matched against Percival. I don’t want my friend getting “accidentally” hurt.

We finish eating and clean up the dishes. There’s some left, so I save it for maybe a lunch this week.

“Just not Friday,” Guinevere says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Well, we seem to meet up for lunch on Fridays a lot. So I’m declaring Friday lunches are now mine. Barring any work conflicts, of course,” she says, putting away a plate.

She already knows where everything goes.

“Sounds good to me,” I say. “Good way to end the week.” Except for the fact that it makes the already-difficult Friday afternoons even longer and more boring.

We go back to the living room in time to see the beginning of the joust. “Perfect timing,” I say, pulling her gently over to sit between my legs on the couch.

 

xXx

 

At the halftime interval, we leave the couch to use the loo and otherwise stretch our legs.

I congratulate myself for refraining from ignoring the joust in favor of having a snog with Guinevere. It was tempting. My earlier assessment of her looking “cozy” turned out to be very true. She just snuggled right in against me, once again as if she was designed for it.

Now, I didn’t completely refrain from _everything._ I would occasionally kiss her forehead, her temple, her cheek. She twined her fingers with mine. I hugged her when Percival defeated Williams in the final challenge, which was a precision challenge, so whoever got closest to dead center on a target wins.

If Williams tried anything, it didn’t work on Percival. I wonder if he’s wearing the bracelet Sefa gave him, and if it really did protect him.

He did tell me he had it examined and cleared with the league, since it was a gift from a Druid. Percival does follow the rules.

“Did you get my Cornettos?” Guinevere asks, heading to my kitchen again.

“Of course I did. Bring me one?” She returns with a cone in each hand and hands me one. “Thank you.”

“Hey, when did you say your friend Mithian was getting married again?” I ask. I don’t know why I am wondering. She told me at dinner last night that Mithian actually had news for her, and that’s why she was so keen on making an appointment to Skype. She’s getting married to a man called Karl, a lawyer she met on the U-Bahn.

Apparently they both commuted at the same time every day on the same subway train. Noticing turned to flirting which turned to talking which turned to him asking her out. Now they’re getting married and she’s asked Guinevere to be a bridesmaid.

“I didn’t, actually. Um, next spring, I think she said.”

I’ll be long gone by then, I think sadly. “That’ll be nice. Do you know if it’s going to be here or in Berlin?” Stop asking questions about a wedding you won’t get to go to.

“She’s still working that out. That’s why they’ve put it off until next year. She said they’re kind of having a war over it. Her parents obviously want her to have it here, because it’s traditional to have the wedding in the bride’s hometown. But she actually kind of wants to have it there, because she really likes it there. Plus her parents haven’t been out to visit her since she’s lived there, and she’s kind of ticked about that.”

“So this would force them to go,” I say.

“Yep. Karl doesn’t care where they get married, he just wants her to be happy. I got to meet him, too. He’s very sweet and his accent is really cute,” she laughs. “I told them to take off to a tropical island and elope.”

“There’s an idea,” I say.

Why did I say that? But now images of whisking Gwen away to Tahiti or someplace to elope with her are flashing through my brain.

Guinevere in a bikini. God help me.

“Would probably cause more problems than it would solve, though,” she says.

“True.” I finish my cone and take the paper wrapper from both our cones to the bin.

I return to find her lying on the couch, taking up as much of it as possible. She grins at me.

She is doing this on purpose. “Well, then,” I say, smirking at her. I go and sit in a chair.

“Hey, come back here,” she calls, sitting up and patting the cushion.

I laugh and come over, sitting next to her.

“Is there enough room for us to lie down?” she asks.

Oh dear. “Probably,” I say. I lie down on my side on the couch, plumping up the pillow on the end and scooting back against the back of the couch as far as I can. She slides in, spooning in front of me.

Oh, no. This is very nice. I wrap my arm around her waist and she rests her head on my shoulder with a sigh.

“Comfy,” she says. “You?”

Too much so. “Yes, actually.”

“My hair not bothering you?”

“Not at all. I… I like how it smells,” I admit.

She smiles against my shoulder. It loosens my mouth more.

“You always smell really good,” I say softly.

“Thank you,” she answers just as softly.

Neither of us really seems to care that the second half of the joust has started. We’re both a bit distracted now.

But Percival’s up now, against some weed called William Deira. “I don’t know how he even got into the league,” I say.

“He can barely sit his horse,” she giggles. “ _I_ can ride better than he does!”

“ _Do_ you ride?” I ask.

“No.”

We both laugh at this, and then watch as Percival easily dispatches Deira. It’s almost embarrassing.

Ethan Williams is up now, matched with Andrew Bedivere on the Dragons. We pay attention.

They ride towards one another, and just before they make contact, Bedivere’s horse spooks, throwing him.

Gwen gasps. I swear.

He’s on the ground, moving but not getting up. The medics rush out. So do some very official-looking men in suits.

“Good thing Percival went already,” I say. “Sorry, that was unkind of me.”

“I was thinking the same thing. It’s only natural. Percival is your friend.”

“I think he’d call you his friend now, too, you know,” I say.

Bedivere is able to walk off, but he is limping and supported on either side by medics. I can see Percival watching from the entrance to the ring, his face a mask of worry.

The commentators start talking. “We’re now getting word that those are league officials on the field. Apparently there have been complaints lodged against Williams for his, shall we say, rather curious string of luck lately.”

“Bob, are those some Druids I spy down there as well?”

“I think so, Jim, and that does make sense, given the nature of the complaints. Says here that he’s been accused of using magic to gain an advantage.”

“Tricky thing to catch. I guess that’s why no one knew about the investigation until just now.”

“Too right, Jim. Looks like this may take a little bit. We’ll be back after this.”

“Wow,” she says. “We’re watching sports history.”

“Yeah, I mean, why would Williams be so stupid?” I ask. “Obviously he’s going to get caught. And this was the dumbest one. These horses are seriously trained. _Nothing_ spooks them.”

“I hope Bedivere’s okay,” she says.

“Yeah, me too. He’s lucky he didn’t get trampled.” I wonder if she’s aware that her foot is nestled between my calves now? I certainly didn’t notice until just now. Of course, I also didn’t notice that my hand is absently playing with her fingers and stroking the skin on the back of her hand.

They return and announce that Ethan Williams has been disqualified, because according to the Druid consultants, he definitely was using magic.

“This is bad, Bob,” the commentator says.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Gwen remarks. I snort a laugh.

“Indeed, Jim. But this means further investigations are going to be necessary. They’ll need to find out if Mercia’s coach had any knowledge of it. And they’ll need to determine if Williams himself has magic or if there was a third party helping him. _And_ if there is a third party, what _else_ is he helping out with? Is there corruption in the sport of jousting, or is this just the act of a lone wolf?”

“A lone wolf? Where do they find these commentators?” Gwen asks.

I laugh. She’s fun to watch sports with. Not only does she know what’s going on, but her color commentary is better than the on-screen talent.

“They take the ones that drop out of broadcasting school because they were too trite and cliché,” I say. “A report on Bedivere’s injury would be nice, too, guys,” I say to the screen.

They do eventually get there. They report later that Bedivere has a sprained ankle and will be out a couple of weeks.

So the match is in an uproar now, especially considering that they’re _in_ Mercia. So the home crowd is raving.

Gwen’s mobile beeps. “That’s probably Sefa,” she says. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” I say, lifting my arm so she can get up and retrieve her phone. My chest feels cold without her warmth there. I refill my drink (and hers) while she checks her text.

“Sefa is freaking out,” she says.

“Give her a call,” I say.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, call her.”

“Hey,” she says gently. “I’m sure he’s fine, Sefa. Arthur and I were just discussing the fact that we were grateful that Percival had already had his turn and wasn’t matched with that guy. Well, didn’t you see him? He was standing waiting for Bedivere when he was limping off. Well, yes, the crowd is angry, but look: they’re mad at _Williams_ , not the Dragons or Percival. Sefa, that bracelet you gave him _isn’t_ magic. Is it?”

Sefa wouldn’t lie about that, would she?

“Oh, good.”

“Guinevere, Percival had that bracelet checked out and approved so he would be allowed to wear it,” I tell her.

“Sefa, Arthur’s just told me that Percival had your bracelet approved. Yeah, he…” She looks at me, puzzled. “What did he do?” She pops the phone on speaker. “You’re on speaker now, Sefa.”

“Hi, Sefa,” I say.

“Hello,” she says. She sounds shaky.

“I talked with Percival late last night, and during our conversation he mentioned that he had just gotten the official okay on your bracelet. Had it checked out and everything.”

“Oh,” she says.

“Everything they wear has to be approved,” I explain, because I don’t want Guinevere or Sefa to think that Percival was suspicious of the bracelet. “Because of just this reason, actually. They’re very tightly regulated, and because it was important to Percival to wear your gift, he did what he was supposed to do and got it approved. He probably didn’t get a chance to tell you because he only _just_ found out when I talked to him. And that was _after_ he talked to you, I understand.”

“Oh,” she says again, but she sounds better. “You’re not worried about him?”

“No more than usual,” I say. “But now that Williams was caught and disqualified, I don’t think any of us should worry about Percival any more than our normal amount. It’ll be fine, and Guinevere’s right: the fans are going to be angry at _their_ team, not ours.”

“Thank you both. I feel better. I sent him a text, even though I know he can’t get it right now.”

“I’m sure you’ll be the first person he calls once the match is over,” I say.

“Second,” she says. “He calls his mum first.”

Gwen makes a face like _awww…_ at me. She thinks that’s terribly sweet. And it is.

“That’s right, he does,” I say, chuckling.

“I’ll let you go now,” Sefa says, and Gwen switches off the speaker.

“Okay. See you tomorrow. Hmm? No. Yes. All right. Have a good afternoon. If you get any good gossip, though, tell us immediately.”

Us.

“All right. The joust is back on, Sefa… right, ’bye,” she laughs, disconnecting. “Going to run to the loo quick while I’m up,” she says.

I ponder the couch again. Do I lie back down? Do I sit up now? Why is this such a difficult decision?

I lie back down. Hell with it. Minutes later, she comes out and joins me again.

This is so nice. I could sleep like this, with her nestled against me. My arm is around her waist again, and her hand is on top of mine now, her slender fingers threading through mine.

 

xXx

 

Percival doesn’t win this time. He was eliminated in the semi-final round by barely a hair. The Dragons still take the match, though, so that’s good.

Guinevere and I stay on the couch, still spooned together, watching the mostly-boring postgame coverage. Ethan Williams is the big news.

Neither one of us seems willing to move.

“Stay for dinner?” I ask. Why not? She clearly doesn’t want to leave. I clearly don’t want her to leave.

“I’d love to,” she says, turning slightly to kiss me. She turns more and kisses me some more.

“Mmm.” I wrap my arms around her tighter, kissing her like I’ve wanted to all day. Seems like she’s wanted the same thing, because in seconds she’s parting her lips for me and pulling me over her.

But we’re on a couch. And she’s close to the edge. We nearly topple to the floor.

“Whoa!” I quickly pull back, trying to fight gravity and regain my balance, pulling her with me.

She lands on my chest in a fit of giggles. “Sorry,” she laughs. “Forgot where I was for a second there.”

Um, yeah. Me, too.

She’s lying on top of me still, just as content as you please. I can feel every curve and it’s going to become quite distracting very soon. “What… what are you hungry for?” I ask.

Apart from the obvious, I mean.

She raises an eyebrow at me, but just says, “Someplace that delivers? I’m not dressed for public viewing.”

I struggle to sit up, and she gets the idea and scoots off of me so I can. “There’s nothing wrong with how you’re dressed,” I say. She just rolls her eyes at me as if to say _You’re such a man._

“Pizza?” She makes a face. “Yeah, me neither. I think Hero’s delivers. You can get more crisps.”

“Excellent,” she says, as if she is hatching some evil plan. It’s very cute and funny.

I stand and go in search of a takeaway and delivery menu I know I have somewhere.

“Club sandwich again, Guinevere?” I ask.

“Yes, please,” she says, clearly liking the fact that I remembered. It’s only been a few days, of course I remember.

 

xXx

 

We found an old movie to watch while we wait for the food and while we eat, sitting together on the couch again, leaning over the coffee table, chatting about unimportant things like the weather and the fact that this movie isn’t as good as either of us remember. She tells me some more about Mithian, like the fact that her father is the head of a large accounting firm here in Camelot. I realize that my father probably knows him. She agrees that it is quite likely.

We finish eating, and I get this sense of “now what?” I don’t want her to go home yet. She seems quite happy to stay where she is. I wonder again if I need an excuse anymore to keep her here.

“So… do you just want to hang out for a while, or…?” I leave the question dangling in the air.

“Arthur, you don’t need to entertain me. If you want me to stay for a while longer, I’d love to. If you want me to go home, that’s fine, too. But don’t feel that we have to _do_ something if I stay. I just like being here with you.”

She’s reading my mind again. “What do _you_ want to do?” I ask. It could be a very dangerous question.

“I’d like to stay,” she says. “We at least have to see the end of this movie, you know. We’ll never know how it turns out, otherwise,” she adds with a smirk.

“Oh, yes, of course,” I say, joining her on the couch again.

I don’t think either of us really has any intention of watching the movie. I look at her for a moment and give up, leaning immediately over to kiss her.

Her arms are around my neck in an instant, and she leans into me, pushing me back on the couch.

She’s taking control. I’m letting her.

I must be very brave or very stupid. The jury is still out on which it is.

I slide my hands around her back, one hand roving higher, its fingers in her hair. She’s got one hand on my chest and the other at the side of my face, touching softly.

She’s so soft and small and warm and she tastes faintly of crisps and diet cola. I nibble her lips lightly.

“Salty,” I mutter, and she giggles against my lips while I continue to explore the crevices and corners of her delicious mouth.

I increase the pressure, kissing her deeper, sealing my lips over hers now, and she presses back, returning my ardor just as intensely. She shifts her body slightly atop mine and I groan at the contact, the reminder of the curves pressing against me.

“Arthur,” she whispers, barely audible, trailing kisses on my cheek, my jaw, my neck, turning my head slightly with the hand she has resting there. That hand slides into my hair now, and…

Oh… oh, God, her lips are on my ear. She can’t do that. “I thought you said… you were going to be… good…” I croak out.

“I said ‘for now.’ And that was last week,” she murmurs between kisses, her breath warm and soft on my cheek.

She does not play fair. I am helpless now. I don’t know if I should tell her to stop or keep doing exactly what she’s doing right now.

My hands tighten, clenching my fists with her shirt bunched in them. Her thigh is resting in a precarious place, and I’m sure she can feel what’s going on there.

Then my mobile rings. It’s my father’s ringtone.

Saved by the bell.

“Guinevere… I have to get that… it’s my father…”

“Oh,” she says, kissing the edge of my ear, then my cheek, as I reach for my phone. She does not move off of me.

“Father,” I answer.

“Arthur,” he returns. “Do you have a minute?”

“A few,” I say noncommittally.

“Oh, are you busy?”

“I have company. What can I do for you?”

“The girl? What was her name again? Gwendolyn?”

“Guinevere, and yes,” I say. Her head is close enough that she can probably hear him. He’s one of those people who still thinks he has to shout into a mobile phone.

“I won’t keep you, then. I just need to know what time the meeting with the CIA is tomorrow.”

“1:30,” I say. “It’s on your calendar, Father.”

“I can’t get it to work. I hate this thing,” he grumbles. He is smartphone-challenged, as evidenced by his feeble attempts at texting me during the concert. “I think I somehow wiped the calendar.”

I sigh and roll my eyes. Gwen stifles her giggles into my shirt. “It’s linked to the database at work, Father, I doubt it. Go to your calendar.”

“Okay… Yep. There’s nothing.”

“It’s showing today’s date?”

“Yes, May 10… ah. May 10, 2021… How on earth did that happen?”

I’m laughing now. “Do you see a button on the top that says ‘today’ on it?”

“Yes.”

“Press it. That should sort you out.”

“Ah. Very good. Thank you. I’ll just… leave you to whatever you were doing, then…” he says.

“Goodbye, Father.” I disconnect the call and look down at her. “Old people and technology.”

She laughs openly now, relieved at not having to stifle it any more. “Does that happen a lot?”

“More often than he’d probably want anyone to know,” I say, laughing.

“What’s the CIA?” she asks.

“Camelot Institute of Architects,” I say. “The people having the dinner next weekend.”

“Oh, okay.” She settles down on my chest now, just resting her head there, and we lie quietly for a while, actually watching the movie.

For a while.

My hands can’t keep still. Neither can hers. Eventually her lips find her way back up to mine, and we are a tangled heap once again.

Only this time I try to maintain control, though she is on top of me.

I don’t think I succeed. Our little hiatus hasn’t quelled things at all; if anything, it’s stoked the flames. I don’t know if it’s because this is the longest we’ve spent together or if it’s simply because our attraction to each other is reaching dangerous levels.

Perhaps both. But my fingers have slipped under the back of her shirt again, because I feel soft skin and the gentle ridges of her spine.

Fine. Stay there, though, hands. No roving to the front.

My lips, however, have their own agenda, and they start kissing down her neck in a pre-emptive strike to keep her from finding my ear again. Maybe.

“Where is it?” I mutter, my lips against her neck as I kiss and mumble my way down, looking for that spot I accidentally discovered last week Thursday.

She gasps and arches against me slightly. “There it is,” I whisper, kissing the tender spot firmly, touching my tongue to her skin. Right where her neck meets her shoulder, just above the ridge of her collarbone. I suck gently at the spot, careful so as not to leave a mark.

Her skin is like honey on my tongue. Her scent invades my pores. She moans and tightens her fingers in my hair, pulling a bit. It doesn’t hurt; it just encourages me.

My right hand, previously on the bare skin of her lower back, is elsewhere now. I kiss my way over to the other side of her neck to check out that side, and as I do so, I move my fingers slightly and realize that I feel fabric under them again.

Don’t tell me. I flex my fingers into something soft and pliant yet firm and springy, and she makes a quiet humming sound, almost like a purr.

Bloody hell, it _is_ her bum. And it’s perfect and lovely and I _cannot tear my hand away from it._ Then she moves her leg, bending it up next to me, and my hand grips her, holding on to that perfect round muscle while my lips return to hers.

We’re a tangle of lips and limbs, and it would take very little effort to move my hand from her bum to the fly of my jeans, and…

No. _No._ Number one, if I’m going to go that far with her, it won’t be rutting on the couch like a couple of university students. Not that this isn’t my home and my bedroom isn’t _right over there_ or anything…

No.

Number two, it’s not even Day 30 yet. But Day 30 is tomorrow. But if I make that leap now, breaking it off on Day 60 will be even more difficult than it’s already going to be. It won’t be just sex for physical gratification with this girl. I know this much.

So, no.

Number three, I haven’t even progressed to second base with her yet. That’s easily enough remedied; all I’d have to do is…

_No._

I want her. Oh, do I want her. I’m sure she can _feel_ that I want her. But not now. Not like this.

“Guinevere…” I gasp, attempting to pull my lips away. “Gwen, honey, I…” I gather my will and move my hand back to the safety of her back, over her shirt.

I don’t know where the “honey” came from. It just sort of fell out.

She gives me one last, sweet, soft kiss, and pulls away just enough so we can see each other.

“Time to stop?” she asks softly. I nod. I can’t say anything. I’m waiting for the blood to return to my brain.

I have a grandfather clock in my living room. It was my mother’s, and I took it with me when I moved out, since it was stipulated as one of the things specifically mine in her will. Most of the time I don’t notice it; it’s not that loud and apart from having to wind it every two weeks, it’s just another piece of furniture. It chimes now, and I count the bells, because I realize I have no idea what time it is.

Ten bells. Time flies.

“I should go,” she says after the clock finishes. “So we don’t get ourselves into trouble.”

Don’t go. Not yet. “You can stay, please,” I say, feeling that familiar guilt creeping over me again. “But maybe we should… sit up.”

She giggles a little now, and we untangle and shift. She smoothes her hair a bit. Then she reaches up and smoothes mine as well.

There’s a different movie starting now.

“We missed the end of the movie after all,” she says, settling in beside me. I wrap my arm around her. I’m not just going to sit like there’s an invisible barrier in between us.

“I wonder if they still found the treasure?” I say, smirking, and she laughs again. I feel like explaining again to her that my stopping what we were doing isn’t her fault. But somehow, I don’t think I need to anymore. I know she knows. I know she’s a little frustrated, but so am I. And I think she knows that as well.

“You okay?” she asks after a bit.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” she tells me, poking me in the ribs. I try unsuccessfully not to jump, and she laughs at me.

We’ve both seen this next movie as well. We watch it anyway. For a while.

The next thing I’m aware of is the grandfather clock chiming eleven. Shit, I fell asleep. I look down. She fell asleep, too. She looks so sweet and peaceful, tucked into my shoulder.

“Guinevere,” I say quietly, stroking her cheek with my finger. She scrunches, cuddling against me more. “Guinevere, wake up.”

Her eyes blink open and she stares at nothing for a moment. Then she looks up at me, eyes wide. “Oh, my God, I…”

“I fell asleep, too,” I say, smiling. “It’s just after 11:00.”

“I should go home for real now,” she says, stretching. I try not to watch, because it’s too good and it’s too late and she really needs to go home now before I don’t let her go home and wind up feeling like a world-class twat in the morning.

She stands up and I follow her to the door like a lost puppy, watching while she puts her shoes on.

“I had a really nice time,” she says, standing up again. I lean down to kiss her and she hugs me instead, kissing my cheek. “We don’t want to get ourselves in trouble again, do we?” she whispers in my ear.

“Good point,” I say. Then I nab her lips for a quick peck anyway. She is not leaving un-kissed.

“Call me tomorrow,” she says.

“Call me tonight,” I correct. “Or text me. When you get home, I mean. You’re tired and I want to know you got home safely, all right?”

She smiles the smile she has when my thoughtfulness surprises her – this is the third time I’ve seen it now – and says, “All right.” And she’s gone.

Why did I let her stay so late? Why was it so hard to say goodbye to her tonight? It’s never been great saying goodbye to her, but it feels like she’s left with something of mine this time.

Could it be because I… no. No. I can’t. I just can’t.

I push myself off of the door, lock it, flip off the telly, and head to my room, where I can be miserable in the dark.

I don’t know what to do.


	31. Day 30

Last night I had another dream. It started out really nice. Like, _really_ nice. Guinevere and I were back on the picnic last weekend, snogging away on the blanket, only this time I let myself give in to all the urges I've been suppressing. My hands were everywhere. Her hands were everywhere. She felt so good over me, so good beneath me as we tangled and rolled on the blanket. I worked my hands behind her back and unfastened her bra. I felt her hands pulling at my belt, the fly of my jeans.

Then something snapped, there was a short shriek, and she was gone.

Only this time I couldn’t find her. I wandered interminably, calling her name. Every once in a while I thought I heard her voice, but when I would chase it, she wasn’t there.

Panic rose in my chest, choking off my air supply. I tried to call her name again. That time I got an answer, loud and clear as a bell. I followed. There were more voices calling my name. Female voices. Several female voices. I heard Vivian’s shrill timbre among them. I tried to turn and retreat, but I couldn’t. I could only move forward, not back. I tumbled into a cave and suddenly I saw them. All of them. More than just the ones I burned through under this curse. Morgause. The American girls from when I was in New York. Sophia Dunwoody from school, my first girlfriend (first victim), standing in her school uniform and knee socks. Some faces I didn’t even recognize.

They said nothing, only meeting me with their cold, hateful stares. I was about to open my mouth and say something, but then I sensed the light from the cave mouth changing, and I turned. On the outside of the cave was Guinevere. She reached her hand out to me. I stepped towards her, and the mouth of the cave started to shrink and close. I stopped, startled. Guinevere stood, still as a statue, hand outstretched, waiting, while the cave opening kept getting smaller. I realized that if I waited too long, I wouldn’t reach her and I’d be trapped in here with all of _them_.

I bolted, running for the opening of the cave.

Our fingers touched, and I jerked awake, covered in sweat. It was 4:15.

I’ve been awake ever since. It’s 7:30 now, and I’m watching a bloody cooking show. Some woman who is very pretty but who also looks like she has too many teeth for her mouth is making something with pasta and some kind of really excellent-looking ham that has a special name that I’ve now forgotten. I think it starts with P. I’m trying to pay attention enough to hear it again so I remember it, but that dream keeps creeping back in. I even find myself wondering if this toothy chef was in the crowd of accusers.

Not that they said anything, but that’s what it felt like.

The significance of Guinevere being on the outside of the cave is what rattles me the most, though. I know she’s different. But is she _that_ different?

Dummy. Of course she’s _that_ different. You never had dreams like this with the others. One dream that, once the shock wore off, made me want to dive back into it and live that life, and one dream that scared the shit out of me.

I should try to go back to sleep if I’m going to make it to work today. I’m exhausted. But I see them when I close my eyes. Plus it’s getting too late to get any proper sleep in. Maybe I’ll go in at noon.

I roll over, pulling the comforter over my head.

I see that sea of angry faces swarming before me; I see Guinevere’s shrinking form on the outside…

Nope. I whip the covers back off of my head, my heart beating fast now. I’m breathing a little heavy, too, I realize.

I can’t go to work in this state. I’m too tired, for one, and won’t be good for anything, for another. I grab my mobile from the nightstand.

_Will be in at noon. Did not sleep well._

I look at the screen, and send a second one.

_And no, Guinevere went home at 11, before you jump to conclusions._

I toss my phone back on the nightstand.

Ah. Prosciutto. That’s what it’s called. I’ll probably forget that again. Guinevere would know it, though.

My phone buzzes. Oh, dear God, my father has texted back.

_Olay._

Either he’s become a bullfighter or he meant to text “okay.” I put my phone back down, laughing.

I think I doze a bit, because the next thing I realize, the pretty female chef with the teeth is now a heavyset man with a beard.

The image of my fingers just touching Guinevere’s at the cave entrance is what snapped me awake again. I felt a jolt this time when I touched her.

I lift my hand and look at my fingers, running my thumb across the pads of my fingertips. I can almost feel her touch lingering there.

It hurts, but not in my fingers. It feels like someone is standing on my chest.

My head hurts as well now, and I really need the loo.

I stand and make my way there, ignoring the glossy temptation that is my mobile sitting on the nightstand.

I can’t. I won’t.

I feel weak and shaky on my feet as I walk to the bathroom, and have to hang on to the edge of the counter to support myself while I pee.

This is very bad. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Hair sticking up, stubble visible. My skin looks a little gray. My eyes look a little red. There are bags beneath them. I look like hell. Makes sense, because I _feel_ like hell. I squeeze my eyes shut and rub them with the heels of my hands. I think I may _be_ in hell.

I splash some cool water on my face, trying to snap myself to life a bit before shuffling back to my bed.

What am I going to do? That dream rattled me even more than the first one, obviously. I know what it’s telling me, but why? I glance at my phone.

I can’t. _Can_ I?

I flop back onto my bed. It’s time to face the inevitable. Time to do what I really don’t want to do. I glance at the clock. It’s nearly nine now.

I guess I can call her.

I crawl back in bed and pick up my mobile again.

I dial the number, hold my breath, and wait.

“Hello, Arthur.”

The thing about Morgana is this: she doesn’t have a mobile. She doesn’t even have caller ID. Just an old phone, attached to the wall with a cord. It may even be a rotary phone, I have no idea.

But whenever I call her, which isn’t often, she _always_ knows it’s me. It’s so unsettling.

What do I expect, though, honestly? She’s a witch.

“Good morning, Morgana. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Of course not. I’ve been up for two hours. You, however, have been up much longer, I’d wager.”

“Are you sending me these dreams?” I ask, my voice a bit more accusatory than I intend.

She laughs at me. “No. I’ve got better things to do with my time than put things inside your head. You have your own demons that take care of that quite effectively.”

“Then how did you know I’ve been up?”

“Brother, dear, just because I’m not _sending_ you dreams doesn’t mean I don’t _know_ about them.”

“So you know this girl is different, then,” I say.

“You don’t need confirmation from me,” she answers.

I take a deep breath. I’ve asked this before, but not in a very long time. She knows what I’m going to ask, but I have to ask it. “Will you please lift this curse from me?”

“You know the answer to that question.”

“But you just said…”

“I simply said you don’t need my confirmation because you already know the truth,” she says.

She’s so frustrating. “Morgana, please. I’m begging you. Take this off of my shoulders.”

“Arthur, have you learned nothing? It’s been a shade more than two years. You are a smart man, much as it pains me to admit. You say she is different. Listen to the voice that gave you that information.”

I sigh.

“Well, if you won’t take it away, can I tell her? What will happen if I tell her? She won’t get hurt or anything, will she?” I ask. I need to know. I’ve almost told her two times now. If I slip and it blows up in my face, I need to know what’s in store for me. For us.

There’s that _us_ again…

“What do you think will happen if you tell her?”

Answering questions with questions. I hate it when she does that. “I think she’ll think I’m a complete arse, never want to see me again, and then I’ll be fucked. Or, more accurately, _not_ fucked. Ever again.”

“Hmm,” she says. It doesn’t sound like she approves of or agrees with my answer. I doubt she’ll elaborate, but still I try.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“Poor Arthur,” she sighs, “always expecting everything to be handed to him on a silver platter.” Then she hangs up on me.

Apparently she is still unable or unwilling to give me a straight answer. Magic folk can be so bloody cryptic sometimes.

If I am completely honest, part of the problem is I get so defensive and jumpy around her that it makes it difficult to think clearly.

 

xXx

 

Somehow I must have fallen back to sleep. I wake up a little after 10:30. I suppose I can get up now. I feel a bit better. Headache has been reduced to a dull throb.

I take some more Tylenol, take a nice long, hot shower, and emerge feeling almost human again.

Apart from the lingering foot-in-my-chest sensation, of course.

I have two texts in my phone now.

_G: Having a good morning?_

_G: Sefa has news from Percival._

I look at my phone, not sure if I can talk to her. I have to at least text her back, obviously, because of this curse, and, well, it’s just polite.

_A: Haven’t been to work yet. Didn’t sleep well & woke up with a giant headache._

Probably shouldn’t have told her that. But I’ve told her tons of things that I probably shouldn’t have.

_G: I’m sorry._

_A: Not your fault._

_G: You sure about that?_

_A: LOL, no… :)_

_G: Feeling better now?_

Physically, yes. Emotionally, still pretty precarious.

_A: About 78%_

_G: That’s pretty specific. Are you going to work?_

_A: Noon. Have that meeting at 1:30._

_G: Oh yeah._

_A: You said Sefa has news?_

_G: Yes, but I’m needed now. I’ll call you later._

_A: Okay._

I don’t know why I never remember that talking to her always makes me feel better. Even if we’re just texting.

I dress and head to the kitchen in search of the rest of yesterday’s lunch to have for today’s lunch.

 

xXx

 

“Are you feeling better?” Guinevere asks. I’ve been home for about a half an hour now. We texted on and off throughout the day about little, silly things. I think she was trying to help me feel better. I was basically a zombie all afternoon. I don’t remember much of the meeting, but I didn’t _really_ need to be there anyway, so it doesn’t matter.

“A bit. Headache will not go away. In fact, it’s back with reinforcements,” I tell her. I don’t even want to turn the lights on because the brightness hurts my eyes.

“Well, get all cozy in your pajamas and go to bed early, then,” she says.

“I plan on going to bed early, yes. But since I sleep in my underwear, I’ll just stay dressed until then if it’s all the same to you.”

“Oh!” she laughs, a little surprised, a little embarrassed, I think. “So what do you wear when you just want to laze around the house, then?”

“Jeans and a t-shirt.”

“You don’t have any pajama pants just for lounging in? Sweats?”

“I have sweats, but they’re for working out.”

“Hmm. That’s just strange.”

“That’s your opinion,” I chuckle.

She laughs. “Okay, so Sefa said that Percival called her last night. There’s serious shit hitting serious fans.”

“Really?”

“There’s talk of Ethan Williams getting barred for life from jousting. The non-magical community is upset and the magical community is _furious_.”

“I imagine so. He’s dragging up ancient bad blood. Did they find out where the magic was coming from?”

“He had an amulet from some mad old wizard called Cylferth, I guess. He’s been located and he’s being held in one of those special places.”

“Right,” I say. “I suppose Williams is claiming this… Cylferth tricked him or blackmailed him or something, right?”

“Of course. Never his fault,” she says. “Percival told Sefa that Williams is a complete arse and always has been. Only a second-rate jouster, which we all knew, and he didn’t want to put the work in to get better.”

“I believe that,” I say. “At the very least Williams will get a heavy fine and a suspension.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “But he’s got money, right? So a fine won’t really faze him.”

“The suspension may, though. He _should_ be barred. Jousting is one of the few sports left with real nobility to it, you know? You just don’t _do_ shit like that.”

“Don’t have to tell me,” she says.

“I know,” I say, smiling. If there was a prize for nobility of character, Guinevere would win it.

“Do you need anything?” she asks after a minute. “I can bring you some soup or something.”

“I just want my bed, thanks, though. I can’t even turn a light on right now.” I want to see her, but I still can’t face her after that dream and my conversation with Morgana. I’m afraid I’d spill everything as soon as I looked into her eyes.

“Get some rest. No bad dreams.”

How does she _do_ that?


	32. Day 31

I did sleep better last night. Maybe I just need her to tell me every night. She keeps the demons away with just her words.

I call her around midday. I still don’t trust myself to see her, but luckily I have a dinner with my father, Mayor Godwin, and some council members tonight.

Luckily? Ugh. I still have a slight headache from yesterday.

“Hello, stranger,” she greets me. “Feeling better?”

“Some,” I say. “Headache is more a nuisance than a disability today.”

“I’m sorry to hear that it’s still around. Did you sleep better, at least?”

“I did, thank you. Nearly ten hours, in fact.”

“Must be nice,” she chuckles.

“Did you not sleep well?” Oh, no, I hope she wasn’t worrying about me.

“I slept fine, but sometimes I don’t have the willpower to shut the TV off when I should,” she says. “So it’s self-inflicted.”

“What were you watching that was so compelling?”

“Oh, a movie I’ve probably seen 87 times.”

I laugh. “That’s really sad.”

“I know.”

“But I can’t say I’ve never done that myself,” I admit.

“Oho, so now the truth comes out,” she says. She sounds like she’s eating something.

“Am I disrupting your lunch?”

“I am eating lunch, but you aren’t being disruptive,” she says. “If anything, I’m the one being rude for chewing in your ear.”

Did she say chewing _in_ my ear or chewing _on_ my ear? I totally wouldn’t mind her chewing on my ear.

Wait, where did that thought come from? I must be starting to feel better.

“I don’t mind,” I say. I lean back and stretch, groaning.

“All right, there?”

“Just stretching,” I say. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right; I was mainly making sure you weren’t having some sort of fit,” she says.

“Oh, I almost wish that I felt worse. Or hope that it comes back around 6:30 tonight,” I say.

“You have that dinner tonight with Uther and the Mayor,” she says, remembering.

“And Councilman Rodor _and_ Councilwoman Carlin,” I say. Me and a bunch of old people. I quite like Annis Carlin, though. She’s not as stuffy as the rest.

“Councilman Rodor? Oh, God, that’s right,” she says.

“What?”

“Mithian’s father. I forgot he was on the city council.”

Smashing. Someone else that will be mad at me next month. “George Rodor is Mithian’s father?”

“Yep. Would you tell him hello for me?”

“Of course,” I say. “Should I congratulate him on Mithian’s engagement or should I not mention it?”

“I… wouldn’t mention it at this point. Play it safe, I think.”

“Noted.” Now I yawn.

“You can’t beg off?” she asks.

“Could, but shouldn’t. I’d have to deal with _disappointing_ Father.”

“Even if you’re not well?”

“If I’m not throwing up or gushing blood, I’m fine.”

“That’s pretty harsh.”

“He figures I can fake anything else. Not that I would.” I need to get some lunch, I think. I can feel my energy waning.

“Will you be able to take your own car so you can leave when you want or if you need to?”

“That was my plan,” I say. I really don’t want to go tonight. I’d rather stay home. I want to see Guinevere. Though I’m still a little afraid.

We’re both quiet a moment.

“Arthur,” she says, a little hesitantly, “something else is wrong. Can you tell me?”

It interests me that she doesn’t _ask_ me if something else is wrong. She _knows_ there’s something else wrong.

“What makes you say that?” I ask carefully.

“You’re quieter than usual. And last week when we didn’t see each other for two days, you kept telling me how much you missed me.”

I haven’t said it once. She doesn’t point it out; she doesn’t need to.

“I’m sorry. I do miss you,” I say. I really do. I get up and walk to my door.

“What was that sound?” she asks.

“Closing my door.”

“Uh-oh,” she says.

“No, don’t worry. It’s just… no one else’s business,” I say.

“What’s troubling you, Sweetheart?” she asks gently.

Oh. Don’t do that. Her endearment stabs me. I want to hear it again; I want it to stab me again.

Bloody hell, I’m turning into a masochist.

Here goes. “It’s… kind of silly…”

“Obviously it isn’t,” she says.

“Well, Sunday night… Monday _morning_ , rather, very early, I…” God, I sound like a little kid. “I had a rather unsettling dream.” I just blurt it out before I can change my mind.

“Unsettling how?”

She needs more than just unsettling? “Um, it brought some demons back. Not real demons, obviously, just personal ones. I woke up at about 4:15 and couldn’t go back to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, it just…”

“Will you tell me what was in it?” she asks softly.

“I… I’d really rather not. I’m trying to forget it.” I will not forget it, though. What I’m really doing is trying to figure out how to do what it was telling me.

She is quiet a minute. I think I’ve hurt her. She thinks I don’t trust her enough to tell her.

“I’m sorry… I… I just can’t. It’s too…” I try.

“I understand. You don’t want to relive it right now,” she says quietly. “I just wish…” she stops. “I’m trying not to take it personally, all right?” she says finally.

“Please don’t take it personally, Guinevere. You’re absolutely right. I can’t relive what I dreamt right now. I know what you wish. You wish that I would open up and tell you what’s going on in my head. You feel like I’m shutting you out. You think I don’t trust you,” the words come pouring out in hushed tones as I sit in my chair with my forehead on my desk, staring at the plastic mat protecting the carpet from the wheels of my chair. There’s a paperclip down there.

“It doesn’t bother me most of the time, honest. But when you’re clearly upset about something and you _won’t tell me what it is_ and I so desperately want to help you, want to just hold you and make it all go away, you withdraw into yourself, like a turtle or a hedgehog, or… one of those… things… an armadillo. Yes. That’s the one.”

I withdraw into a little armor-plated ball, not letting anything touch me, keeping my vulnerable bits safely hidden away. Pretty accurate.

“I’m sorry, Guinevere.” More sorry than you can possibly know. “The words just aren’t there. I’m not really the best with… understanding and explaining my own feelings. If that makes any sense at all.” I lift my head off of my desk and lean back in my chair, rubbing my forehead with my free hand.

“It does. And I know that,” she says. “You say more with your actions than with your words,” she adds. She’s probably blushing now. She sounds like she is.

“Um, yeah, I guess,” I say. I think I might be blushing as well. I think we’re both thinking about what we very nearly got up to yesterday on my couch. “I do really miss you, Guinevere,” I say. And I do. It’s just hit me like a ton of bricks. “And I’ve said this before, I think, but you _do_ help me. You may not realize it; you may not think you do, but you do.”

“You have said that. I just don’t know _how_ I do.”

“Just by being you.”

“But that’s nothing,” she protests.

“That’s _everything,_ ” I argue. Because to me, it is. It shouldn’t be, but it is. I can admit that much. I need her light like I need oxygen or water or food.

Shit. Someone’s knocking at my door.

“Arthur?” My father’s muffled voice sounds from the door.

“Was that a knock?” Gwen asks.

“Yeah. Father has come to call.”

“I’ll let you go.”

“Are we okay?” I ask. “Just a moment,” I call out to my father.

“Yeah. I know you’re really trying. And I remember my promise,” she says.

“I’ll call you later if it’s not too late,” I say.

“Okay.”

“I do miss you,” I say.

“Yes, that was the third time you’ve said it,” she chuckles now. “I miss you, too. Have a good dinner.”

“Thanks, I’ll try,” I say. “Have a good afternoon.”

“You, too.”

We disconnect and I go to open my door for a very impatient-looking Uther.

 

xXx

 

I don’t get home until nearly ten. My head is pounding again.

_A: Just got home. Head feels like there are angry badgers inside._

_G: I’m sorry. :( Dinner that bad?_

_A: Dinner was fine. Head just hurts. Didn’t even drink anything._

_G: Probably wise. I’m sorry for getting frustrated with you earlier._

_A: Don’t be. It was probably overdue, honestly._

_G: You don’t need me adding to your troubles._

_A: It’s okay. I’m sorry, too._

_G: I know. Go to sleep._

_A: Can you do one thing for me?_

_G: Of course._

_A: Tell me to sleep well or something?_

I feel a little silly, but I can’t have another bad night. Last night’s sleep was great, and I’m greedy for more.

_A: It works._

_G: Sweet dreams, Arthur._

_A: Thank you. Good night._

I’m already in bed. I hope my asking for her to banish the bad dreams doesn’t make it not work.

So tired. In a sleep-addled moment of desperation, I grab the other pillow and hold it to my chest, willing it to feel like her.


	33. Day 32

I’m feeling much better today. Another good night’s sleep (no dreams of any kind), and my mind is a lot clearer.

Of course I’m still cursed, but I’m not feeling the weight of it so much right now. I’m not exactly sure what switch got flipped inside me, but I’m feeling… about as good as someone in my situation can feel.

And I owe Guinevere a visit. It’s the least I can do. Luckily, I’m out of the office again this morning, so I stop at my favorite bakery and pick up a box of cookies.

I hope she likes chocolate chip. They’re my favorite. Especially _these._ They’re huge and soft and the chip-to-cookie ratio is perfect.

I walk into her shop and Sefa looks up immediately.

“Expecting someone taller?” I ask, smiling at her.

She blushes and grins. “He’s taking me to dinner tomorrow,” she says. “Hello, Arthur. You’re feeling better.”

“I am, and I brought cookies,” I say, brandishing the box. Of course she can tell I’m feeling better.

“I’ll get Gwen for you,” she says, disappearing in a flurry of flowered skirts.

Sefa returns a minute later. “She’ll be a couple of minutes,” she tells me. “She’s casting.”

“Casting?” Casting a spell? Guinevere doesn’t have magic.

Sefa sees my confused expression and chuckles. “Go have a look. Don’t startle her.” She waves her arm towards the door leading to the back of the shop.

I go, wondering what I’ll see. I can hear a strange hissing sound and soft humming, so I follow that sound. I see Guinevere standing over a large circular… thing… almost like a drum, with a small blowtorch in her hand. That’s where the hissing sound was coming from.

Don’t startle her. I clear my throat and she looks up.

“Hey,” she says, looking up for a second, smiling.

“Sefa said I could come back and see,” I say, stepping closer.

“Mind your necktie,” she says. “I’m quite serious.”

“Um, okay,” I say. I tuck it inside my shirt, between the buttons.

“Glasses,” she nods over to the wall, where there is a pair of safety glasses hanging. She’s wearing a similar pair. They actually don’t look bad on her, and _no one_ looks good in safety glasses.

I come closer and look down. She’s got the blowtorch pointed at a small pile of scrap gold in a cup-like receptacle attached to a long arm. The arm is attached to a spindle in the center of the drum and extends beyond. On the other end of the arm is another receptacle with a strange box-like thing in it.

“You’re melting that?” I ask.

“Mmm-hmm,” she says. “Just watch.”

I am watching. She holds the torch confidently, as if it’s not a destructive implement. To her, it’s just a tool. This is what she does; this is her passion, her livelihood. I can see all this.

The gold is glowing red-hot, and ten seconds later it all collapses into a puddle, still glowing red but undeniably gold.

“Stand back,” she says. She lifts the torch and quickly pulls a lever on the outside of the drum, releasing a block bracing the arm.

I watch, fascinated, as the arm spins like mad, the little pot-part closer to the center, the box part further out, skimming the perimeter of the drum. It’s silent, no motor. She must wind it up like a clockwork toy until the spring is tight; that’s what the block was for.

She kills the torch with a _pop._

I see now why she had me tuck in my tie. This thing is going fast. This also clearly explains why her hair is always back and why she dresses very simply at work. No flowing sleeves, nothing loose to catch on something.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“The molten gold goes through the arm – it’s hollow – into the mold. Centrifugal force.”

“Wow.”

It finally slows down enough and Gwen holds a pair of thick leather gloves down into the drum, gently knocking against the arm to slow it further until it finally stops. Then she lifts the box out and opens it. There’s a cylinder of plaster inside, and I can see little gold spots on the end. Must have been where the gold went in.

“How do you get it out of there?” I ask. Now I have to know what’s inside.

“Like this,” she says, taking the cylinder and dropping it in a bucket of water. “It’ll take a minute or so.” She takes off her glasses and looks up at me. “Hello.”

“Hi,” I say, smiling. “A minute, you say?” I take my glasses off and set them down.

She nods. I step close to her, place my hands on either side of her face, and kiss her softly. It’s not the deep, dipping-her-backwards-on-the-street kiss like last week, but I feel it just as intensely. I think she does, too.

That’s what this is with us: intense. Intense and heady and quickly spiraling out of my control.

I think, at this point, I’m just along for the ride.

I release her lips and kiss her nose, then her forehead.

“I’m all sweaty,” she says.

“I don’t care,” I say, stroking her cheeks with my thumbs. She’s not touching me, but I know it’s because she doesn’t want to get my suit dirty.

“You _did_ miss me,” she smiles.

“I told you I did.” I glance down at the bucket. “Is it ready?”

“You want to see it?” she asks. She seems surprised.

“Well, yeah, I want to see it,” I say.

She smiles and reaches her hands into the bucket. I can see the muscles and tendons in her forearms moving as her fingers work, I’m guessing to work as much of the plaster as possible off of whatever’s in there.

Finally she brings it out. It looks like a lump of dirty gold right now. Interested, I follow her to a sink, where she turns on the tap and grabs a small, stiff brush, scrubbing the lump until all the plaster is gone.

She holds it in her palm and shows me.

“It’s a frog,” I say. A frog?

“It’ll be a brooch. Custom job,” she explains.

“What about those little… rod things?” I ask, touching one of two gold posts sticking out of the frog’s head.

“I’ll cut those off. That’s just to get the gold to him.” She sets the frog on her workbench. Her bench appears a little cluttered, but I can see there is a method to the organization of it. I’m sure she knows exactly where everything is.

The tools are all so small and delicate, but I suppose she’s doing a lot of small and delicate work. I see a saw with a tiny, thin blade, several pairs of tweezers, some things that look like dental implements, and, curiously, a large wooden mallet.

“So, how did you get the… frog-shaped space into the plaster?” I ask, tearing my attention away from her bench. She’s heading out front, so I follow.

“I made him out of wax first. Then I put him in the plaster and cook it once the plaster is dry. All the wax melts out, leaving the frog-shaped space into which I can put gold. Or silver. Depending on what is required.”

“Ah,” I say. “That was really cool.”

“Neat, hey?” Sefa asks, making a mark in some sort of book near the register. “Gwen, that Grunhilda person just called, wondering when her brooch is going to be done. I told her Monday.”

“It’ll likely be done before that, but thank you,” Gwen says.

“Frog lady?” I ask. Gwen nods, laughing.

She sees the box now. “Ooo, what did you bring me?”

“Cookies. I hope you like chocolate chip.”

“My favorite, actually,” she says, opening the box. “Mmm.”

“George Rodor says hello,” I tell her as she reaches for a cookie. It’s 10:30 in the morning; why not?

She smiles at me. “Did he have anything else to say? He usually does,” she says.

“Well, _apparently_ I’m a very lucky man,” I say, acting as if this is surprising news.

She laughs. “He was always fond of me,” she says.

“He did speak very highly of you,” I say.

“So the dinner meeting went well, then? You didn’t really say last night.”

“Yes. Councilwoman Carlin and I get on quite well, actually, so I mainly talked with her.”

“Really? I always hear that she’s a frosty bitch,” Gwen says. “This cookie is excellent. Sefa, try one of these cookies.”

Sefa glances at me, almost as if she’s asking my permission since I brought them.

“I brought them for both of you. And me. That’s why there are six,” I say, grinning at her as I reach for a cookie.

“Thank you,” she says.

“The people that say that about her either don’t know her or have opinions opposite to hers. Yes, she can _be_ a bitch, but that’s actually just a tool in her bag of tricks. She’s very smart and very shrewd.” Which doesn’t exactly explain why she likes me so much. She almost treats me like a favorite nephew, indulging me one moment and scolding me the next. I sometimes wonder if my mother was anything like her.

“I actually don’t know her, so I’ll take your word,” she says. “But I suppose it is kind of the way. Strong, confident women are often labeled ‘bitch’ by people who feel threatened. Usually insecure men,” she chuckles.

“You’d like her, I think. She’d like you, too. Councilman Rodor thinks so, too,” I chuckle. “‘Annis, you’d love this girl. Smart, funny, and independent. Has her own business,’” I say imitating Rodor. Didn’t hurt for my father to hear him expounding on her virtues, either.

Gwen giggles. “That’s pretty good.”

I shrug. “It’s basically my father’s voice, just a little deeper.” A customer walks in and Gwen quickly stashes the cookies. I hang to the side, taking the opportunity to look at the display cases.

I like her work. A lot. She has a very good eye, of course. Some things are small and delicate, others large and robust. She uses unique stones. I read the little placards. _Tourmaline. Moonstone. Chalcedony. Jade. Citrine._ It’s all very cool and very beautiful.

Sefa has the customer well in hand, so Guinevere comes back over to me.

“See anything you like?” she asks.

Yes. She’s standing right in front of me.

“You do beautiful work,” I say. “I don’t think these earrings would suit me, though.” I point at a pair with teardrop-shaped turquoise stones set in.

“Nah, you’d want something smaller,” she laughs.

I take her hands in mine now, rubbing my thumbs softly on the backs of her hands.

“My hands are dirty.”

“No, they’re not, you were just scrubbing that frog,” I remind her, and she giggles. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry again for the past two days. You’re right; I was hiding.”

“From me?”

“From everyone. Even myself, at times.”

She nods. “I know you have a hard time sometimes. I know you have trouble voicing it, but you know I’m here if you ever find those words.”

She’s much too good for me. I can only nod.

“You have to go back to work,” she says. “And Sefa and I are going out to do girl things tonight,” she sighs. “I can cancel if you want.”

“Tempting, but no. You need to spend time with your friends, too. I think Gwaine is working tonight again, so maybe I’ll see if Leon is available.”

“You’re going to wind up at the Rising Sun; you know that, don’t you?”

I laugh. “Yeah.” Leon and Gwaine are almost inseparable now. They really are very good together.

I glance over her shoulder and see that her customer is facing away, so I lean down and kiss her again. “Tomorrow night,” I say.

“Yes,” she agrees, reaching up and pulling my tie out from where it was still tucked into my shirt. I had forgotten about it. “You can bring me some supper.”

I laugh, but nod. “Okay.” I think I would bring her a phoenix if she wanted one. I kiss her once more, longer. “I should go.” On cue, my mobile starts ringing.

“Uther’s looking for you,” she says, recognizing the ringtone.

“Always,” I sigh. “Father. I’ll call you back in a minute. _Yes,_ I’m on my way.” I disconnect.

“Go. Don’t make yourself a liar,” she says, smiling at me.

“Have fun tonight,” I say.

“You, too.”

Leon is good company, but he’s not Guinevere. I’m sinking in so deep with her that anyone else is just… _not Guinevere._ Sinking. Sinking like I’m trapped in quicksand. Only the quicksand is her; her hair, her skin, her voice, her scent. I’m sinking and I know that I’m going to die.

But I find myself wanting to dive into that quicksand, heedless of the consequences.


	34. Day 33

“You’re bringing what?” Guinevere asks. “You blinked out for a second there.”

“Curry. That all right?”

“That sounds perfect,” she says.

“Good, because I have it already and I’m almost to your flat,” I say, and she laughs.

I arrive a few minutes later, and she greets me rather warmly, throwing her arms around my neck and kissing me until I almost drop our food. “Hello,” I gasp after she finally releases my lips.

“Hi,” she says, grinning sheepishly at me. She takes one of the bags and pokes her nose inside. “Yum. Hungry.”

We decide to eat in the living room, as per usual, and watch _Undead Zone_ from last night on DVR, since we both missed it.

“Yum, nothing like eating food that looks like _this_ while watching a show about zombies,” she says.

“You’re not squeamish, are you?” I ask. That’s the problem with a lot of curries. They do kind of look… pre-chewed sometimes.

“Not really. I just think it’s kind of funny,” she chuckles.

Because we’re eating, though, we actually _watch_ the program this time. But we are sitting very close to each other. Occasionally her knee brushes against my leg, and I am acutely aware of it.

“Full,” she says, but then she takes one more bite of bread. “I could live on naan bread, though.”

“It is really good. I’m surprised you haven’t figured out how to make it,” I say.

“I don’t have the right kind of oven,” she says. Obviously she’s looked into it.

“I’m done, too,” I say. We clean everything up, and I go to sit back on the couch. She stands, looking like she wants to say something. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing. It’s just… I kind of bought another dress last night while I was out with Sefa. And now I don’t know which one to wear to the dinner. I was hoping you could help me decide.”

“Is that all? Sure, bring them out.”

“I’d rather model them for you,” she says. “If that’s all right.”

“Um, sure.” I keep my bum planted on the sofa as though it was stapled there as she disappears into her room.

When she closes the door, I breathe again.

For a fleeting moment, I wonder if she’s actually going to come out in her dress, or if she’s planning some sort of seduction.

No, Guinevere wouldn’t do that. But it has happened before. And that was some of the fastest thinking-on-my-feet I’ve ever done.

I sit, fidgeting, flipping channels on the telly until I hear the _click_ of her door opening. She peeks out.

“Can you help me with the zipper? I got it some of the way, but my arms aren’t long enough.”

Oh, boy. “Sure,” I say. I grab a drink of my water because my mouth is suddenly very dry. I stand as she comes out, holding the dress to her chest, keeping it up. It’s the red one. The one I saw in a tiny picture in my phone. With the bare shoulders. She turns around. I reach up and move her hair out of the way, my fingers brushing her skin.

Not breathing again, I take hold of the zipper tab and pull up, zipping her in. The skin on her back is just as flawless as the rest of her. I step back before my lips decide to see what her shoulders taste like.

She turns around. “Well?” she asks softly, turning around again. She’s wearing the shoes she bought to go with, too.

“You look…” My brain isn’t functioning. “You look beautiful. It looks even better in person.”

She smiles shyly at me. Then she bites her lip. I think she realizes what this is doing to me and she actually feels a little bad about it. “Um, sorry…” she says, turning her back to me so I can un-zip her now.

“It’s all right,” I say, easing the zipper down. Dear God, even her back is beautiful. Step away.

“Thank you,” she says, returning to her room.

I lean against the wall outside her door. The unzipping was much worse than the zipping. Obviously. I go and get another drink of water.

I’m falling apart. Over a zipper.

Her door opens again, and she’s in a purple dress that also needs zipping. And this zipper is lower than the other one, because there is more of her back showing.

Don’t look; just zip. I zip. I peek. Damn it.

She steps forward and turns. “Do you like this one?”

“I do,” I say. “You look lovely, Guinevere. But I think I still like the other one better.”

“You do?” she asks.

“You like this one better, though,” I say. “It’s not my decision; it’s your dress, I…”

“Arthur, you’re allowed to have an opinion,” she says. “I like this color better. And you like red better, so you like that dress more.”

“It’s not just the color,” I say. “That dress,” I point into her room at the red one, “could be purple like this one and I’d still like it better.”

“Really? And technically, this is lavender,” she says, smiling. “What is it you like about the other one?”

“I like that your shoulders are bare,” I blurt. Mouth working ahead of the brain again.

“Oh,” she says, smiling and looking down at her hands. “I’ll just return this one, then.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say. Now I feel bad. “You like the dress.”

“I’d have nowhere to wear it, and it’s an unnecessary expense,” she sighs.

I think about offering to buy it for her, but I don’t think that would go over well. I also wonder where the urge to make that offer came from.

“It’s up to you, of course,” I say. “But it does look really good on you.”

“You’re not helping,” she says, trying not to smile now.

“Sorry. I’m a bad influence, aren’t I?”

“Yes. Um, will you unzip me one more time?”

“Okay,” I say, stepping forward as she turns again.

Her room is three feet away. Her bed is right _there_. It looks very… inviting.

Do the zipper.

I want to trail kisses down her spine. I stalwartly keep my lips away.

“Okay,” I say once I’ve got the zipper down.

Then I flee back to the couch.

She joins me a few minutes later, fully dressed and looking apologetic. “You look a little rattled,” she says quietly, sitting beside me.

“Little bit,” I say. It’s a lie. I’m a lot rattled. By the sight of her bare back. By unzipping two dresses.

It’s not so much the actual unzipping; it’s the thoughts that simple action puts in my head. It’s her soft skin so close to my fingers, the scent of her hair drifting towards me.

“Sorry,” she said. “If I could have done it myself, I would have.”

“I know. It’s all right,” I say. “Heh. Kind of silly, really.”

“Not at all. I… I’m a little rattled myself,” she says.

This is news. I look over at her. She’s right next to me, close but not quite touching. Her apartment is quite small, and her bedroom is just over there.

It would be nothing at all for me to pick her up and carry her to bed.

She’s waiting for me to say something. I’m staring at her, drinking her in. “I should… probably… go home,” I finally say.

She smiles a sad half smile, almost as if she was both expecting me to say that but hoping I wouldn’t. “I thought you might feel that way.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I must be making you crazy.”

“Little bit,” she says, echoing my earlier reply.

“I’m certainly making myself crazy,” I mutter, standing up. She follows me to the door.

“Lunch tomorrow?” I ask, turning around and startling slightly because she’s _right_ there. My hands find her waist on their own.

“Of course,” she says, smiling. “I want Chinese food.”

“Then that is what we shall have,” I say. I lift my hand from her waist and stroke her cheek softly. “I can’t wait to see you Saturday night. You’ll be the most beautiful woman there.”

“I think you may be exaggerating a bit, but thank you,” she says, leaning her face into my hand. “Are Leon and Gwaine going to be there?”

“Yes,” I say, running my thumb softly across her lower lip.

“Good, so I’ll… know someone else,” she says, distracted a moment. I should remove my hand, but I can’t seem to find the will. Then she turns and kisses my palm.

“Sod it all,” I mumble, and lean down, capturing her lips. I was going to give her a small goodnight kiss, but it’s not working out that way. My arms are pulling her closer, my lips are parting, my tongue is thrusting.

Her hands are clutching my shirt, but then they move, sliding up around my neck. One roves into my hair.

Her bedroom is still far too close.

I softly withdraw, exhaling. “Goodnight, Guinevere,” I say.

“Goodnight, Arthur. Sleep well,” she says.

She remembered.

 

xXx

 

Unfortunately, sleep won’t be visiting me right away. It’s too early, and I’m too worked up. I watch some telly. I empty my dishwasher. I reorganize my underwear drawer by color.

Anything to distract myself from what I really want to do.

Well, what I want to do most is to go back to Guinevere’s flat and spend the night _not_ sleeping in her bed.

My feet take me to my bedroom, however, where I undress and climb between the sheets. I don’t even bother turning the television on. I turn the lights off, and in the safety of the dark, I allow my thoughts to return to her, to her skin, her voice, her laugh, her scent, her eyes; just… her.

I actually groan her name at one point. I’m in some sort of strange blissful agony, and this is only a temporary fix to get me through another night.

I’ve been doing this much more than I want to; definitely more than I should.

After, I clean myself up, roll over, grab the extra pillow again, and let sleep claim me.

I dream, but I dream of her. They’re good dreams, but when I wake tomorrow morning, the only thing I’ll remember is that they were good and they were of her.

My rules are nothing but ash, blowing away in the wind. My carefully-constructed walls are crumbling before my eyes.

She’s under my skin.


	35. Day 34

She wants to go back to Imperial Wok, so I meet her there at 12:30. This time we meet in the parking lot, since we’ve arrived at the same time.

I had spotted her car when I pulled in and parked beside her.

“Hi,” I say, “looking for someone to have lunch with?”

She stops, looks me up and down, and says, “I suppose you’ll do.”

I laugh and pull her into my arms. “Come here, you,” I murmur, and kiss her hello. I take a little longer than I intend.

Someone honks at us. We have to stop doing this in parking lots. Guinevere starts giggling, so I release her but take her hand as we walk to the restaurant.

“You seem to be fully recovered from last night,” she says.

“I suppose so,” I say. She doesn’t need or want to know exactly _how_ I dealt with my frustration. It’s still lingering a bit, if I am honest.

I briefly wonder if she…

No. Do not even think about that, because if you think about it, you’ll start picturing it, and that would be Bad.

We are led to a table, and I peruse the menu. Then I decide I’m going to get an order of those excellent dumplings as my lunch. And maybe some egg drop soup.

The waitress appears almost immediately, and since we’ve both decided already, we just order everything right away. Guinevere orders the orange chicken lunch combination, which comes with fried rice and an egg roll, which she says she’ll share with me.

“Arthur,” she says hesitantly.

“Something wrong?”

“I’m… getting nervous about the dinner tomorrow. I mean you say it’s no big deal, but… you have to understand that my world has never included fancy industry dinners.”

“Guinevere, you’ll be fine. More than fine, you’ll be wonderful,” I say, reaching across for her hand. “You don’t even have to do anything. Just be your normal, charming self, and you’ll be fine.” I squeeze her hand and she smiles. “Or, if you prefer, just say nothing and be my arm candy,” I add, teasing now.

She laughs even though she’s trying to look annoyed. “Arm candy my arse,” she says, pulling her hand away in mock irritation.

I snatch it back and bring it to my lips, kissing her knuckles. “Of course you’re more than arm candy,” I say.

“Good. Thank you,” she answers, a bit haughtily. “I’m still worried about your father, though.”

“Don’t worry about him. I really laid into him that day. I think he was surprised, actually.” I know I was. “He’ll behave, I promise.”

“Because there will be other people around, right?”

“Partly. But I think he actually feels bad about saying what he said in front of you.”

“But not in front of you,” she says.

“No, he doesn’t feel bad about saying it to me at all, and I don’t really blame him, to be honest,” I say, looking down at my placemat. It’s one of those kinds with the Chinese Zodiac on it that you see at almost every Chinese restaurant.

“You need to stop beating yourself up, Arthur,” she says gently.

“Working on it,” I say, half-smiling at her. So she really doesn’t care about my past. That should make me happy. It does, but it also makes me sad. Because she’s doomed to be part of my past.

“So,” she says brightly, apparently changing the subject. “What can I expect tomorrow night?”

“Well, there’ll be cocktails, then dinner, then speeches, and finally awards.”

“What kind of awards?”

“Um, Excellence in Architectural Innovation – that’s for the really edgy stuff, I don’t go in much for that, Excellence in Architectural Philanthropy—”

“Doing things for charity,” she supplies.

“Yes. And the Architect of the Year, of course. Father’s won it seven times.”

“Are you up for that one?”

“I’m not up for any of them,” I say. “I haven’t been around long enough to have amassed a body of work. This rec center is the first major thing I’ve done.”

“Really? What about the emergency ward at the hospital? That’s pretty major.”

“Okay, so this is my first complete building.”

“Oh, I see.”

Our food arrives, and the dumplings are as good as I remember. The soup is excellent, too. I hadn’t tried it last time. They even gave me little fried wontons crisps, which I drop into my soup and scoop back out with my spoon to eat.

“Um, speaking of the rec center, they’re actually going to be unveiling the plans and model at the dinner,” I say.

“Really? Arthur, that’s amazing! Why didn’t you tell me before now?” She’s very excited about this.

I shrug. “I was going to let you be surprised,” I say. “But something’s come up, and I need your input.”

“Oh? What could you possibly need my input for?”

“Um, well, you know the reason the strip mall was demolished was because it got hit by the wyvern attack,” I say.

“Yes.”

“Well, I was thinking that we should, you know, dedicate at least part of the rec center to the memory of the firefighters and first responders that died in that attack. I talked to Annis Carlin about it on Tuesday night, and she thought it was a wonderful idea. So did George Rodor.”

“Oh…” She puts her fork down and picks up her napkin. She’s crying.

“Don’t cry, Guinevere,” I say softly. “If… if it’s too much, or you don’t want it…”

“It’s wonderful, Arthur,” she says. “It’s perfect. It’s just… such a surprise, that’s all.”

“I know Elyan did more work at the hospital than at the strip mall, but…”

“Thank you,” she says, sniffling. She stands suddenly and comes around the table, where she deposits herself in my lap and hugs my neck tightly. “Thank you,” she repeats in my ear.

Wow. I didn’t know that this would have such an effect on her. I think I’m very glad I chose to tell her now instead of springing it on her tomorrow night.

“You’re welcome,” I say, holding her a few moments, stroking her back, indulging myself a little. “People are staring, you know,” I finally say.

She giggles, kisses me once, and returns to her seat. “They probably think you just proposed or something,” she says.

“Ha, probably.”

“Everything all right?” our waitress appears, a hopeful look on her face. She looks pointedly at Gwen’s left hand.

“Fine, thank you,” I say.

“He just had good news for me, that’s all,” Guinevere says, dabbing her eyes with her napkin again. “No one’s getting married,” she laughs.

“Oh. Now I owe Lin five pounds,” she says glumly. “How is everything with the food, then?”

“Very good, thank you,” Gwen answers and I nod my agreement.

“Should have lied. You would have gotten free dessert,” she smiles at us and goes off to refill my drink.

We’re still chuckling, but I need to get off the topic of marriage quickly. We’ve only been together 34 days. Surely she can’t be seriously thinking about marrying me.

Surely I _shouldn’t_ be thinking about marrying her…

No. I _cannot_ be thinking of any such thing.

“So, um, Annis and I were thinking maybe we could call the gymnasium the ‘Firehouse One Memorial Gymnasium.’ Or some such,” I say. “And then there’ll be a plaque somewhere, either just outside the doors or inside them, listing the names.”

“Oh, that would be perfect,” she says, smiling.

“He was in Firehouse One, right?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says.

“Annis and George said that they would convince the rest of the council. They didn’t seem to think it would be a problem,” I say.

“I should certainly hope not,” she says. “Those men are heroes.”

“Yes, they are,” I agree. “And they deserve more than just a gymnasium named after them, but I can only do so much, you know.”

She takes my hand across the table. “Thank you so much, Arthur. You have no idea what this means to me, that you would think of doing something like this for them.”

“You’re welcome,” I say. It does feel pretty good. Maybe I should strive for that philanthropy award instead of Architect of the Year. Certainly seems the more noble option. “How’s your food?”

“Really good,” she says. She spears a hunk of chicken with her fork. “Try.” She offers me the piece and I take it from her fork, allowing her to feed me.

“Mmm, that is… whoa…” It goes from both sweet and savory to spicy in a heartbeat, and I wasn’t prepared.

She laughs, clearly amused as I reach for my water and drink.

I forgot that her tolerance for spicy food is higher than mine. She mentioned it when we had our picnic, and I remembered last night when I got curry again, but it slipped my mind today.

“It’s not that bad,” she says, taking another bite just to rub it in.

“No, it’s not, but it was just worse than I was expecting, that’s all,” I say.

“Wimp,” she teases.

“Am not,” I say petulantly.

She laughs again. “Okay, you are too cute when you pout, stop it…”

 

xXx

 

“What are you doing tonight?” she asks me outside, standing between our cars.

“Last minute stuff for the dinner tomorrow, unfortunately. Hell of a way to spend a Friday night, I know. But if I’m not there, they’ll bugger up my model,” I say, pulling her into my arms as I lean against my car.

“I’m sure they wouldn’t,” she says, resting her chin on my chest to look up at me.

“You have no idea,” I say. “I wouldn’t trust them to set up a plastic Christmas tree, much less my model.”

“It’s your baby,” she says, and I nod. “I can’t wait to see it in person.” She slides her arms around me and hugs me.

It feels so good, just standing here like this with her in the warm spring sunshine. In a parking lot.

I lean down and kiss her, softly at first then with more need, more desire, and, as always, she returns my ardor.

She’s a little spicy right now, but I don’t care. Her innate sweetness still comes through, the sweetness that I crave like the addict that I am.

And this time no one honks at us.

“Have a good afternoon,” she breathes, once I finally release her lips.

I groan. That’s right. I have to go back to work. “Yeah.”

She laughs and steps away slightly. Then she steps back. “One more,” she says, lifting up on tiptoe, kissing me quickly but thoroughly, and then turns, her hand on her car door.

“What time are you picking me up tomorrow?”

“The dinner’s at seven, so… three?” I grin at her.

“Arthur,” she sighs.

“All right, I’ll be there around 6:45. Maybe 6:30.”

“6:45,” she tells me with a smirk. She knows I’ll be there at 6:30 anyway.

 

xXx

 

I get home after ten again. I’m very glad I was there to make sure my model was set up properly. It may have been upside down and inside out had I not been there.

I collapse into bed. Thirteen hour work days are not my thing at all. As my eyes drift closed, my phone beeps on my bedside table.

_G: Sweet dreams, Arthur. Thank you again._

_A: You’re very welcome. And thank you for remembering._

_G: Always._

I stare at that lone word and my throat tightens. It’s such a small word, but it carries so much weight.

She does not know that her “Always” will turn into “Never Again” in the blink of an eye. I cannot think about that day.

I cannot think of the look of betrayal in her eyes, the pain on her face…

How can I do this to her?

And how, in God’s name, can I let her go?


	36. Day 35

6:35. So not 6:30. I ring her door, and she answers, “You’re five minutes late.”

“I’m ten minutes early,” I reply, laughing.

The door buzzes and I go in, hopping up the stairs. I walk in and see her in the bathroom, finishing getting ready.

“Hey,” I call.

“Um, can you come zip me?” she asks, her voice apologetic. “I tried, I really did.”

“It’s all right,” I say, walking to the bathroom, where she’s standing with her back to me.

I zip her up as quickly as I can. She did have it about two-thirds of the way up, which is farther than she got it Thursday.

“Thank you,” she says. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Take your time,” I say. I sit on the couch. The telly is on, tuned to that food channel again. Some sort of competition that’s somewhat interesting.

“Okay,” she says. I flip off the TV and stand.

Wow. She looks… wow.

“You look so beautiful,” I say softly. She’s wearing the red dress, heels, and it looks like she’s had her hair done. And she’s got on makeup. I don’t think I’ve seen her wearing makeup before. She doesn’t really need it, and she doesn’t have a lot on anyway, but the effect is… wow.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling shyly.

“Did you have your hair done?” I ask, stepping towards her, still staring like a complete idiot. My fingers are drawn to her curls, and I touch her hair gently.

“Just trimmed. It always gets springier with a trim,” she says, obviously not minding me touching her hair. Some girls are very particular about that. I’m glad Guinevere isn’t one of them.

“And you left it down,” I say. “For me?”

“Of course,” she says. “You look very handsome, Arthur.”

“Thank you,” I say. I don’t know that she’s seen this suit yet. It’s my best one, an Armani, dark gray, and expertly tailored. Of course.

“Your tie matches my dress,” she says, running her finger down my tie with a smile.

“I know,” I say.

“You did that on purpose?” she looks up at me.

“Well, yes.”

“Do you have a lavender tie, too?” she smirks.

“No. But I might have to get one, if it’s your favorite color.” I’m secure enough in my masculinity to wear a lavender tie. I ignore the voice asking me why I would buy a tie just because it’s her favorite color. I want to enjoy my evening.

“Shall we go?” I say, leaning over to kiss her cheek. Her lips are all shiny and glossy and I don’t want to mess them up. Her bare shoulder is right there, and I almost kiss it, too.

Maybe I should have let her wear the other dress.

“Let me get my wrap,” she says, disappearing into her room for a second and reappearing with what looks like a large piece of black fabric draped over her arm. “Let’s go,” she says. We take two steps and she says, “Wait.”

She opens the small clutch purse she is carrying and peeks inside. “One more second,” she says, scurrying to the bathroom. She emerges less than a minute later, and I just catch a glimpse of something white being tucked inside the small purse.

Then I remember last weekend and her comment about PMS.

Oh. All right, then.

 

xXx

 

We arrive shortly after seven, which is fine because dinner isn’t until eight anyway. The first hour is cocktails and mingling. It’s generally a headache. I spot my father across the room and decide to put that off until absolutely necessary.

“What would you like to drink, my lady?” I ask.

“I see waiters with trays of champagne,” she says, looking around.

“Sounds good,” I say, steering her towards the nearest waiter and plucking two glasses from his tray.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Hey, there’s Leon,” I say, and we head in his direction. Gwaine is with him, standing next to him, looking like a catalog model.

“He cleans up well,” Guinevere says.

“He looks like a bloody catalog model,” I say, voicing my thoughts.

“Jealous, Mr. Pendragon?”

“Not at all,” I say. “I just wonder how he gets his stubble to be so perfect and even, that’s all.”

She laughs. “Darling, you look just as good as he does,” she says, kissing my cheek. Then she wipes the spot of lip gloss off with her thumb.

“Chickadee, you look good enough to make me want to go straight. Almost,” Gwaine says to greet us. Gwen laughs and hugs him and Leon each in turn. They both kiss her cheek.

“Gwaine, Leon, you both look dashing,” she says.

“Gwen, you look beautiful,” Leon says. “Keep a close eye on her, Arthur, I already see people checking out your woman.”

“Oh, stop,” Gwen says, laughing. But Leon’s right. An older man, probably my father’s age, walks past us and I can see him giving Guinevere the once-over.

Old pervert.

“Let’s find our table,” I suggest, steering her towards the dining area. There are several large, round tables, each set for eight. We pick up our place cards from a long table at the entrance, and luckily we all have the same number on the back. We’re at table eleven, so we go to that table, set our place cards down, and wander back to the bar. Around us, several other people are doing the same thing to stake their claims on the best seats at their tables. I’d like to sit next to Leon, because he and I usually make snide remarks quietly during the speeches, but I don’t want to leave Guinevere vulnerable to the possibility of sitting beside Father (I peeked at his place card, and he’s at our table as well), so she’s between myself and Gwaine.

We mingle; I introduce Guinevere to everyone we talk to. She’s completely charming and lovely and wonderful and everyone seems impressed by her. No surprise there.

Finally we make our way back to our table, and Guinevere is already lamenting her shoes.

“I’m not used to heels this high,” she tells me.

“But they make your legs look great,” Gwaine says.

“Gwaine, you can barely see her legs,” I say. He’s probably right, though. “Why don’t you slip them off under the table?” I suggest quietly.

“Wait, who’s slipping _what_ off under the table?” Gwaine asks.

“Shoes, you degenerate,” Leon laughs, shoving Gwaine’s shoulder lightly.

“Yes, but you love me anyway,” Gwaine counters.

Leon just blushes, smiles, and takes a drink of his champagne.

They’ve said the Big Words already? Wow. This is something.

“Arthur, there you are.” My father’s voice drifts over to us now. “If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought that you were avoiding me,” he says.

“I was,” I tell him, and he snorts a laugh. “Father, you remember Guinevere,” I say, giving him a look that clearly says _watch it._

“Ah, yes, hello, dear, lovely to see you again,” he says pleasantly, even smiling. I breathe again.

“Hello, Mr. Pendragon,” she says, smiling back at him.

He sits, and Leon introduces Gwaine. “Uther, I’d like you to meet Gwaine Murphy. Gwaine, Uther Pendragon, my boss.”

“Hello, sir,” Gwaine says, standing and extending his hand to shake Father’s. “I think I’ve seen you at the restaurant once or twice.”

“Yes, you’re that cheeky waiter, aren’t you?” Father says.

Oh, please don’t make a disparaging remark about the fact that Leon is dating a waiter.

“Guilty as charged,” Gwaine says, grinning that grin of his and sitting back down. “You need to come in more. All that posh food isn’t good for you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Father says noncommittally.

We’re joined by Geoffrey, my father’s right-hand man in the office, and another designer of ours, Ranulf Vaughan and his wife Melissa. They have three rather unruly children, so they’re probably very happy to be out of the house. Honestly, their children are a menace. Whenever I see them I always stop at the chemist’s and buy a box of condoms on my way home.

They’re not at all like the beautiful, precocious little girl in my dream.

But Ranulf has no spine and Melissa lets them do whatever they want, so no wonder they’re terrible children.

More introductions are made and the food starts being served shortly after.

 

xXx

 

Conversation is casual and superficial during dinner, as is to be expected. Guinevere is much better at small talk than I am. They ask her about her work, she asks about theirs. I catch my father watching her curiously from time to time, as if he doesn’t know what to make of her. I think he likes her, but he’s reluctant to, for some reason.

I cannot even fathom how a person could _not_ like Guinevere. She’s just impossible to dislike.

Of course, I may be partial.

There’s an interval between dinner and speeches, and Guinevere excuses herself to go to the restroom. Gwaine offers to go with her.

“Bring me another when you stop at the bar, would you, Pet?” Leon asks, indicating his glass.

Pet? Bloody hell, Leon is _gone._

“How did you know I would be stopping at the bar?” Gwaine counters, winking at him. Leon just rolls his eyes. “Of course I will. Come, Chickie.” He offers his arm to Gwen, who takes it and walks with him across the dining room.

Good thing he’s gay. They are a very attractive couple. I look across the table and can just make out Ranulf reminding a confused and surprised-looking Melissa that Leon is gay.

“You remember, Mellie,” he says. Then he sighs. “I told you at the Christmas party. And the picnic last summer.”

I glance sideways at Leon and he is trying just as hard as I am not to laugh.

Ranulf is a bit of a weed. We don’t much care for him. And his wife is as wet as a fish in a rainstorm.

“Excuse me.” Father stands and heads to the bar or the restroom as well. I’m still laughing with Leon, so I don’t may much attention.

“So things are going well with Gwaine?” I ask, scooting over two chairs into Gwaine’s vacated seat.

“Unbelievably well,” Leon says. “We’re, um, talking about moving in together, actually.”

“Really? Already? It’s been, what, a month?”

“I know, but, well… when you know, you know, right?” he says, grinning sheepishly.

Sadly, I do.

“Well, I’m happy for you,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder. “Though I think we’re all thankful I wasn’t drinking anything just now when you called him _Pet,_ ” I add, laughing.

“Kind of slipped out,” he admits, laughing.

I realize that Guinevere should be back by now. I see Gwaine at the bar already, too. “Be right back,” I say. I stand and go in search of my date.

I find her in the corridor by the restrooms, looking out of a window. She really does look lovely, and I realize that I never really took the opportunity to appreciate her from this angle. The way her hair falls slightly down her back, the narrowness of her waist, and the soft flare of her hips.

The corridor is deserted apart from the two of us, and I slowly approach her from behind on silent feet. When I reach her, I finally give in to my urge and press my lips to her bare shoulder as I wrap one arm around her waist.

“Mmm, I hope that’s you,” she says.

“So do I,” I answer, and she giggles. “Been wanting to do that since Thursday,” I mutter, kissing her shoulder again.

“So what stopped you?” she asks, angling her head as I kiss her neck.

“Fear,” I unthinkingly confess, wrapping my other arm around her now as well.

“Oh, okay,” she answers, seeming to understand. I move my lips again, finding that spot she likes. “Oh... that’s not fair,” she says, her voice breathier now.

I chuckle against her neck, kiss her once more and loosen my hold on her so she can turn around.

“Why are you out here all alone?” I ask. I’m still holding her lightly around her waist.

“Uther just apologized,” she says, furrowing her brow. “It was a little strange.”

“I imagine so,” I say. He must have wanted to catch her alone. “I did tell him he should, but I didn’t know if he would or not,” I say.

“He caught me coming out of the loo,” she says running her hands over my lapels. “He said he wanted to apologize for his remark in your office that day. He said he realized right away that it was inappropriate to say in my presence and that’s why he invented the conference call or whatever it was.”

“I knew that call was a lie,” I say. “I don’t know why he didn’t just apologize immediately. Wait, yes, I do. Because that would be acknowledging his faux pas. And he obviously underestimated you.” I smile at her and raise my hand to stroke her cheek lightly.

“You might be right about that. Because then he somewhat sheepishly told me that I seemed a lovely girl with a good head on my shoulders…”

“Even though you’re with me,” I interject.

She laughs. “Yeah, um, he did say something on that order, too, but I wasn’t going to tell you. But then he said that he hopes that you hang on to me because he hasn’t seen you this happy in at least two years.”

“I’m surprised he noticed,” I say. It’s true, though. I am happy. As happy as I can be. As long as I pretend I’m not royally screwed in 25 days. “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”

“Yes, but a girl can always hear that again,” she smiles at me. Then she leans up and kisses me. It’s easier with her wearing heels; her lips are closer.

“We should go back to the table. The extremely exciting speeches are going to be starting soon,” I say, nuzzling her nose with mine.

“Splendid,” she says, grinning at me. “Wait,” she pauses, wiping my lips with her thumb. “I don’t know why I bothered re-applying my lip gloss, honestly,” she mutters, and I chuckle.

We walk back into the dining room, and I see a young blonde woman chatting up Gwaine at the bar. He’s being polite, but he clearly wants to escape. I spot Leon walking towards us, and I stop him.

“You need to go rescue your man,” I say, nodding behind me.

“Oh, bugger,” he says, laughing. He changes his course to head to the bar.

“This will be good television,” Gwen says, turning around to watch.

I agree completely. We watch as Leon strides up. We can’t really hear what’s being said, but we see Leon say something, slide his hand along Gwaine’s shoulders, and lean over and kiss his cheek. Gwaine beams up at him, and we can clearly see him mouth the words _thank you_ to him.

The blonde who was holding Gwaine hostage is staring, mouth agape, and her face is bright red.

Gwen is giggling behind her hand beside me. “I shouldn’t laugh,” she says. “That poor girl.”

“I know,” I say, smirking. We continue back to the table. “I think she’s someone’s daughter, actually, and probably bored out of her mind.”

“Hello, Loverboy,” Guinevere teases Gwaine when they return to the table.

“Ugh,” he says. “I told her I was gay and she refused to believe me.” He rolls his eyes. “Name is Eira. She’s here with her father, I guess. Pretty, but, well, female.”

The lights go down before we can further taunt him, and we shift our chairs around a bit so we’re facing the podium at front at least somewhat.

 

xXx

 

I’m practically asleep by the time they get to the bit about the rec center. Father steps up to the podium, and Gwen pokes me to make me pay attention.

“I’m awake,” I tell her.

“Just checking,” she whispers.

Father goes on about the rec center, how it’s a feather in this firm’s cap, blah, blah, blah.

Finally they pop my drawing up on the screen and unveil my model, and there are appreciative murmurs running through the room.

I wasn’t expecting cheers and applause, obviously. Appreciative murmurs are about as good as it gets for something like this. And people are looking with interest.

“Arthur, would you join us, please?” my father calls me forward. I was kind of expecting this.

I walk forward, and a few people mutter congratulatory sentiments as I pass them. My father steps aside and gives me the podium. “Thank you,” I say. “I’m thrilled that my design was the one chosen by the city council for this new recreation center. I hope that it will be a safe and welcoming place for the people of Camelot to gather and enjoy.”

“There has been a new development with this building as well,” my father chimes in. “I received word from Councilman Rodor this morning.”

I look at my father for confirmation, and he nods. “I get to announce it?” I ask.

“Your idea,” he says.

“Oh. Well, I didn’t realize that this was going to happen so quickly. The gymnasium, here,” I point to the approximate location on the model, “is going to be dedicated to the memory of the firefighters and first responders who lost their lives in the wyvern attack that partially destroyed the strip mall that was on the site of the new center.” I’m forced to pause as another wave of murmurs, accompanied by several nodding heads, flows through the crowd. “The gym will be called the Firehouse One Gymnasium, as that particular firehouse suffered the largest number of casualties in that attack.”

 _Now_ they applaud. I look over at Guinevere, and she’s dabbing her eyes with her napkin again. I think about mentioning her; that her brother was one of the fallen, but I decide against it. For one thing, I don’t think she’d want the attention right now. And secondly, and this is selfish, but I don’t want people to think I brought her just because of that.

“Do you want to mention Guinevere?” my father asks me in my ear.

“No, I don’t think she’d want that,” I say. I catch her eye and raise my eyebrows. She shakes her head _no_ , very small, but very definite _._ “Leave it be.”

“All right.”

“Thank you again,” I say into the microphone, and step away. I never know how to finish up.

The emcee rescues me, stepping back up to the microphone, and I return to my seat.

The awards are mostly boring. The Innovation award goes (for the third year in a row) to a strange bloke by the name of Alator – that’s it, just Alator – who strides up in a bright green suit and sunglasses.

“I guess the glare from his head is too much,” I hear Gwaine mutter. Guinevere has to clamp her hand over her mouth to hold her laughter.

“He’s actually a decent fellow. Just… eccentric,” I say. “He’s a Druid, too, and pretty powerful, but he doesn’t use magic in his work.” I’ve met him once or twice, and he’s rather friendly. He just takes some getting used to. But Gwaine’s comment _was_ pretty funny.

“The odd ones are usually nice, I’ve found,” Gwen answers.

The philanthropy award goes to a bloke I don’t really know called Will Ellison. He doesn’t look too much older than me, actually, which is very unusual. I guess he did a lot of work for an orphanage in a town just outside of Camelot called Ealdor. The orphanage had a fire, and apparently he spent time there as a boy so he felt he should give back. It’s a very sad story.

Architect of the Year goes to Robert Aeridian, a rival of my father’s and one seriously intimidating bloke. Father is not happy about this. He was hoping to nab the award two years’ running.

“Something to strive for next year, Father,” I say.

“This recreation center will certainly help that,” he answers. I frown, feeling slightly used. Again. I should be accustomed to it, but it always stings a bit.

When I lean back, Guinevere takes my hand, kisses it, and holds it in her lap. She heard what my father said.

She leans over and whispers in my ear. “Everyone that counts knows it’s your building, Sweetheart.”

I feel better.

 

xXx

 

I park behind Guinevere’s building after eleven. I want to go upstairs with her. But will she invite me up, or do I have to come up with something? She’s pretty much stopped asking.

She looks over at me and bites her now gloss-free lower lip.

“I… I can come up… if you want me to,” I venture.

“Of course I want you to, silly,” she says.

I smile and turn off my car. I get out and jog around to open her door for her.

“Thank you,” she says, taking my hand and leading me upstairs to her flat.

“I’m, um, just going to change clothes,” she says. “I hate to ask you this, but…”

“I’ll unzip you,” I say, chuckling. It’s almost becoming funny.

I unzip her dress. _Almost_ becoming funny.

She disappears into her room, closing the door behind her.

I remove my jacket and my tie and unbutton the top button of my shirt. My shoes were off the second I walked in. If she can get comfortable, so can I.

I sit on the sofa. I have a thought.

Please don’t come out wearing lingerie.

I must be the only straight man ever to think that phrase in this situation.

Then I immediately remember the little white item she was tucking into her purse on the way out, and I breathe again. I really don’t think she’ll be coming out wearing lingerie.

I really don’t think she would do that to me, anyway.

She comes out a minute later wearing a grey t-shirt and cotton trousers with cats on them.

“I hope you don’t mind me just putting my pajamas on,” she says. “It seemed silly to put on anything else.”

“It’s fine. Makes sense. I like your cat trousers.” She’s limping slightly. “Ankle bothering you?”

“A little. The heels were higher than I’m used to,” she says. “I’m just going to pop into the loo.”

“Okay,” I say. Why am I here? Why did I choose now to come up?

Because I wanted to. Simple as that. This was probably the best CIA dinner I’ve been to, and I know it was because she was with me. Not because I got to show off my new building, not because I got to announce the gym dedication. Her.

I came up because I wasn’t ready to part from her yet.

She comes out, face washed, hair back in a braid. She looks like herself again, and somehow she’s more beautiful this way.

She sits next to me on the couch, leaning her head on my shoulder. “I had a good time tonight,” she says.

“Yeah, it wasn’t too bad,” I say. Again, it’s because she was there. “You looked beautiful tonight.”

“You’ve told me that three times now,” she says, smiling up at me. I trace her jaw with my fingertip, and she lifts her face to mine.

“You look beautiful now, too,” I say softly just before I close my lips over hers.

Each time I kiss her I am struck by how soft her lips are. How they mold perfectly to mine. How she always tastes so bloody sweet.

Our mouths open almost immediately, tongues searching each other out, hungry for one another.

My brain is tearing up my rules and throwing them out of the window. Her body is so warm and soft against mine, and I tighten my arms around her.

My hand slides up her back as I pull her closer, our tongues tangling and sliding deliciously.

Dear God. Oh, no. She’s not wearing a bra.

I hear myself gasp slightly as my hand continues to rove, trying to be cool about it, trying not to let her sense my panic.

Dummy. These are her pajamas. Of _course_ she’s not wearing a bra.

And now she’s pulling me down over her, leaning back on the couch against a small pile of throw pillows on one end. I’m forced to bring my hand away from her back so it won’t be trapped beneath her.

I should have left it trapped there. I stubbornly move my hand to the side of her neck, but it starts sliding downwards. I move it to her waist, bunching the material of her shirt in my fist to keep it there, but that doesn’t work either, because moments later, my thumb brushes the underside of her breast.

She makes a soft noise into my mouth in response. She wants me to do it. _I_ want me to do it.

So I do it. It’s been over a month; I guess it’s okay. I move my hand higher, easing my fingers over the soft mound.

“Mmm,” she hums against my lips and arches her back, pushing her breast against my palm. My fingers flex in response.

It’s so perfect. Soft yet firm, perfectly sized to my hand. I slide my thumb across the tip and feel her nipple respond, tightening, asking for more. I do it again and she moans into my mouth.

I move my lips, kissing down her neck to her favorite spot, nudging the collar of her t-shirt out of my way as my hand continues to familiarize itself with this new part of her.

“Arthur,” she gasps my name. I love how it sounds, and I groan against her neck. My thumb rubs against her nipple again, now even more prominent, and I feel myself pressing my hips into her, trying to… trying to something, I don’t really know. My body is no longer listening to my brain.

“Arthur, I can’t right now…” she says, speaking to my thoughts.

“I know,” I mumble. “’Sokay.”

At this point, I think the only thing stopping me is the knowledge that she’s not open for business right now.

Is that why I finally came up? Because I knew she was on her period and I wouldn’t be _able_ to succumb to temptation?

“Arthur?”

Oh. I hesitated in my confusion. “Sorry, I’m good,” I say, kissing her lips again. My hand is still glued to her breast, and my fingers flex on their own. Then I kiss her again, and once more, and soon I’ve forgotten my confusion and I am lost in her again.

“You can… go under my shirt… if you want,” she tells me between kisses.

“I don’t think I’d better,” I say, looking down at her for a second. I kiss her nose, and then I dive back in. If my hand touches her skin, _there_ , I know I will lose it. It’s torment enough feeling her through the shirt, feeling how responsive she is to my touch.

My mind reels with possibilities, and I realize that no matter what my expectations are of her, no matter how amazing my fantasies are of her, they will surely pale in comparison to what the reality will be.

I groan again, tearing my lips away, but before I can return to her neck, her lips go traveling down, feathering kisses along my jaw as she goes.

She sucks and licks at my neck, even biting once or twice, just hard enough to make me groan. I grunt and press my hips against her again. This is almost as good as my ear.

Shit, if she goes for my ear, I am toast.

In any case, I need to back off or I’m going to ruin my suit. Or else force me to make a very awkward visit to the dry cleaners. I ease my hand away from her breast and slide it around her shoulder, holding her shoulder blade in my hand.

Our kisses slow and relax, becoming less needful, turning sweeter, softer, and soon we are just lying on her couch with my head on her chest and her arms around me, one hand picking idly through my hair.

I could sleep like this every night. I know I would never have a bad or unsettling dream ever again.

“Am I squashing you?” I ask when she squirms slightly.

“Little bit,” she says. We shift, turning so that she is lying on me now. “Better,” she says, snuggling against my chest.

I wrap my arms around her. It’s nearly midnight. I should go home.

She makes a rather nice blanket. She’s warm and soft, and… I think she’s falling asleep. Her breathing has gone deep and regular, and she’s very still.

“Guinevere?” I ask.

“Mmm.”

“Guinevere,” I repeat.

“I love how you say my name,” she mumbles.

“Guinevere, darling, you need to go to bed,” I say, caressing her face. The endearments are increasing from both of us and there’s nothing I can (or will) do to stop them.

“Come with me,” she says, still mumbling. She’s half asleep already. She must have been more tired than she let on. I’m pretty tired myself.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I say. It would be torture. I gently start to sit up, and am surprised at how easy it is, considering she’s basically dead weight.

She must be a pretty deep sleeper.

“Come on,” I say softly, shifting her into my arms and standing. I carry her to her room and see that her bed is already turned back. That’s fortunate, because my hands are full.

I set her on her bed and tuck her in, moving a stray curl out of her face as she snuggles into her bed.

Then I kiss her forehead and whisper, “Good night.”

“Seep goo…” she mumbles. I assume she’s telling me to sleep good. She’s amazing.

I turn off the lights, collect my coat and tie, and ponder her door. I can’t take her keys. She has a deadbolt. I don’t want to leave her door unlocked, even though the door to the outside is also locked.

Ah. I can lock the knob. Hopefully it’ll stay locked when I shut the door. I turn the little lock on the knob and close the door behind me. Then I try the knob. It’s locked.

I get home, undress, and flop into bed. Just as the grandfather clock in my living room starts chiming midnight, I send a text.

_Home safe. Had to lock your doorknob because I couldn’t do your deadbolt. Thanks for a great night._

I don’t even have the energy to think. It _was_ a great night. Don’t dwell on anything else.

My hand flexes, the memory of that perfect breast of hers is burned into my palm like a brand.

She’s branded herself on several parts of me, I fear. My mind, my soul.

My heart. She’s imprinted there, and it frightens me more than I am willing to admit.


	37. Day 36

When I wake up, around nine (apparently I was tired, too), there’s a text from Guinevere waiting for me. She sent it about a half an hour ago.

_G: Sorry I literally fell asleep on you. Thanks for tucking me in._

_A: No problem at all. I just got up._

_G: I’m up, but still in bed. Watching telly & being lazy._

_A: I’m not even that far. I woke up, saw your text, and answered it._

_G: I didn’t say anything weird, did I? I’ve been told I talk in my sleep._

_A: You weren’t asleep that long. You did want me to come with you to bed, though._

_G: Oh, God…_

_A: And you told me to “seep goo,” which I took to mean “sleep good.”_

_G: Probably correct. Did it work?_

_A: Yes._

_G: Then go with it._

I laugh, but I also have to pee. I get up and take care of that.

Ugh. I have to go back and get my shit from the hall and make sure it gets back to the office intact. We’re not quite done with the model at the office yet. But that’s this afternoon.

_A: Can you meet me for brunch or something? I have to get my model back to work this afternoon._

_G: Brunch?_

_A: Considering the hour…_

_G: How about coffee? I’ve been in the mood for Andromeda’s._

Not my favorite place. But I’ll go.

_A: Sure. I can get a muffin or scone or something._

_G: Pick me up at 10?_

_A: Okay._

 

xXx

 

I pick her up at ten, as we agreed upon. She looks lovely in jeans, a t-shirt and my hoodie, her hair in a ponytail.

I park and we go in; it’s not terribly busy yet, so we’re not too concerned about getting a table.

Guinevere orders a medium chai tea, and I get a large cocoa. Then I remember that the last time I got one here, it wasn’t very good.

“Um, I don’t want to be difficult, but the last time I was here, my cocoa wasn’t very… cocoa-y. It tasted mostly like hot milk. Any chance you can put a little more chocolate in it this time?” I ask. I really hate to be one of _those_ customers, but neither am I going to spend my money on rubbish.

“Oh, I’m sorry, of course we can. I’ll make sure they put extra in for you,” the girl behind the counter tells me. I think she makes a rudimentary attempt at fluttering her eyelashes at me.

“Thank you,” I say, smiling at her. She flushes. A couple of the coins out of my change she was handing me slip out of her hand and clatter on the counter.

Good Lord. Beside me, Guinevere is trying not to laugh. This girl can’t be more than a day over 17. She needs to get a grip if she’s going to get herself a boyfriend one day.

We find a table in the corner and wait for our order to be called.

“Was she seriously trying to flirt with you?” Gwen finally giggles. “She’s, like, ten years younger than we are.”

“That was the impression I got,” I say, shaking my head and chuckling. I angle my head at her. “How old are you, anyway?”

“26,” she says. “You?”

“I turned 27 a few days before I met you,” I say.

“Order ready for Arthur. Arthur, your order is ready.”

“Ah. Be right back,” I say, and go off to get our order.

I return in a flash, with two cups and a small plate on a tray. I’ve ordered a banana nut muffin to go with my cocoa. It’s about the same size as a cat’s head.

I remove our things to the table and set the tray by the bin.

Just as I am sitting down, I hear it.

“Arthur? _Arthur_ , it _is_ you!”

Dear God, kill me now.

But I should have known. She practically lives here.

Vivian appears beside our table, putting on a bubbly façade. I thank God that there are only two chairs at our table.

“Hello, Vivian,” I say politely.

“I _heard_ them call an Arthur, and I thought, no, it _can’t_ be him. But then I thought again and thought, well, _maybe,_ so I took a little stroll through the shop and here you are!”

“Here I am,” I say. “Vivian, this is Guinevere. Guinevere, Vivian.” The last thing I want to do is introduce them, but I cannot be rude.

“Pleased to meet you,” Gwen says. To my surprise, she looks amused. This woman always surprises me.

“Oh. Yes, hello,” Vivian says absently. “ _Arthur._ I _must_ tell you. You _should_ have gone with me to Father’s cottage that weekend. You missed _everything._ ”

“Well, can’t be helped, I guess.” Seems to me that the only thing I missed out on was getting shagged by her. Which seems about as appealing as a root canal right about now.

“Ooo,” she huffs. “The _horses_ got out, and we had to _chase_ them down. Even got the police involved.”

“How exciting,” I say. “Did you get them all back?” I cast an apologetic glance at Gwen. She just smiles a wry smile and drinks her tea, letting me deal with Vivian.

“Well, of _course_ we did,” she says, as though it should be obvious. “Is this your new girlfriend?”

 _Now_ she takes an interest in Guinevere? Brilliant.

“Yes,” I say. “Vivian, Guinevere and I would like to finish our conversation, and I’m sure whomever you’re here with is missing you.”

Not likely. But I need to get rid of her.

“Oh. Right. But first I _must_ tell you that I’ve found someone else already, too. He’s a _jouster._ Professional and everything,” she boasts.

“Oh, really? Is he here with you now?” I ask.

“No, he’s in Caerleon right now. He’s on _their_ team. I’m going to move up there to be with him.”

That’s awfully fast. “That’s nice,” I say. “What’s his name?”

“Lance du Lac,” she says dreamily. Guinevere kicks me under the table, and I shoot her a _don’t you dare laugh_ look.

“I’ve heard of him. Best of luck to you,” I say. Now go away.

“Thank you. Um, you, too,” she says, the last part an afterthought. She flounces away finally, leaving us in peace.

I look at Guinevere, and am about to say something, but she cuts me off.

“So. You tapped that?” she asks me, her face slightly disgusted, one eyebrow raised.

“Nooooo,” I draw the word out, waving my hands in front of me. “Dated? Yes. Tapped? Definitely not.” She doesn’t need to know that she just met her predecessor.

“She’s very pretty,” she says, taking a sip of her tea.

“She’s an insufferable cow.” Suddenly I have to reach over and thump Gwen’s back as she chokes on her tea.

“Don’t _do_ that!” she finally gasps, laughing.

“Sorry. But am I wrong? You just met her, what do you think?”

“I think she’s a spoiled, high-maintenance bitch,” she says, looking sideways at Vivian across the coffee shop. “And she’s with _Lance?_ How bizarre is that? Strangely fitting, though.”

“Seems to me Lance is getting what he deserves,” I say.

“That’s a terrible thing to say, Arthur. Oh, wait, I didn’t say it right. _Arthur,_ ” she says, imitating how Vivian said my name.

“Stop that,” I say, but I’m laughing. “I know it’s a terrible thing to say. But she’s terrible, and so is he. Now we just have to hope that they don’t get married and have terrible children together.”

“Oh, my God, Arthur, that’s awful,” she says, but she is laughing now, too. “And I doubt he’ll marry her. She shouldn’t even move up there. That kind of leopard does not change his spots.”

I nod, drinking my cocoa finally. The conversation with Vivian has at least allowed it to cool to a drinkable temperature. It’s much better this time. I break off a chunk of my muffin and eat it. It’s good, too.

“I thought about warning her, actually,” Gwen says thoughtfully.

“Yeah, but how would you do that without giving yourself away? I mean, I’m sure you don’t want her to know that you dated him as well, right?”

“Not really,” she says. “Just seems a shame to let him continue running around being an arse to women, you know?”

Ouch. This is hitting a little too close to home, suddenly.

Guinevere looks over to the back of the coffee shop. “She’s just gone to the loo. Would it be awkward to intercept her there?”

“I guess not. Isn’t the ladies’ where you lot gather and gossip anyway?” I ask.

“True,” she says, chuckling. “I’ll be back. Wish me luck.”

You’re going to need it. “Good luck.”

I watch her walk away. Halfway to the loo she looks back over her shoulder and gives me an _I know you’re watching me walk away_ look. All I can do is grin sheepishly.

I pick at my muffin, contemplating the little Rubik’s Cube that is my Guinevere.

She correctly identifies Vivian as being a high-maintenance bitch, yet she goes to warn her to keep a keen eye on her boyfriend out of concern for her happiness.

I don’t know that I could be that good. That’s nobility. She’s got a kind, giving, noble heart.

And I’m going to stomp on it. My only consolation is that I’ll be stomping on my own as well.

Not that that’s much of a consolation. She’s still going to hurt and I’m going to cause it.

My stomach seizes up on me a little, and I set my muffin down. I need some water. I go to the counter and ask the girl for a bottle of water.

When I return to our table, I spot Guinevere and Vivian emerging from the restroom, chatting. Gwen waves and Vivian heads towards her table.

“Well, that was interesting,” she says when she sits back down.

“Not go well?” I ask.

“No, it did, strangely. When did you get that water?”

“Just now. Felt like water,” I say. “What did you say to Vivian?”

“She spoke to me first, actually. Told me that she was surprised to see you with someone like me,” she says.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I ask. What a bitch, holy hell.

Guinevere holds up her hands. “I just said, ‘Excuse me?’ and looked at her.”

I have a very clear picture in my mind.

“That seemed to make her back down a bit, and she just says, ‘Well, not that there’s anything _wrong_ with you, exactly, it’s just… you don’t seem to be _Arthur’s_ type.’”

I chuckle at her spot-on impression of Vivian.

“So I asked her what makes her such an expert, and she says she dated you for… big surprise, two months.”

“Um, yeah.”

“Then I just told her that we are happy and that you treat me very well.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“So she naturally shoots back that _Lancelot_ is _so_ good to her and that she can’t _wait_ to move to Caerleon.”

“What did you say to that?” I ask. I’m very curious.

“I said, ‘Vivian, this really isn’t my business, but I have a friend who dated him, and, well, he kind of cheated on her. A lot.’”

“I suppose she went straight into denial,” I say.

“Like a shot. Defended him, saying he would _never_ do that to her, et cetera. So I said, ‘I hope he has changed, but… I felt I should tell you so you can at least keep your eyes open. I’d hate for you to get hurt; not when I could give you a heads-up.’”

“What did she say then?” I’m surprised that Vivian didn’t just stomp out in a petulant fit.

“She asked me how my friend caught him. I told her. I think the first thing she’s going to do when she gets to Caerleon is go through all his dresser drawers and trouser pockets. Maybe comb through his mobile,” she chuckles.

“Wow,” I say. “She took that better than I thought she would. What were you chatting about when you came out of the loo? Looked pretty casual.”

“She was asking where I got my boots,” she says, kicking her foot up so I can see.

“Are those new?” I ask. I haven’t seen them before.

“I got them when I bought the lavender dress,” she admits. “It’s a weakness.”

“Ah,” I say. I’ve come to understand a lot about women over the years, but their curious affection for footwear is not one of those things. “You know, you amaze me,” I say, unable to hold it in any longer.

“I do? Why is that?”

“Well, just the fact that you felt she should be warned. In spite of the fact that she was pretty rude to you, you wanted her to look after herself where Lance is concerned. Not many people would do that.”

She shrugs. “It’s no big deal,” she says.

“I think it is,” I answer, reaching over for her hand, which she freely gives. Then I lean over and kiss her cheek.

“Your cocoa is getting cold,” she says quietly. She’s right. It is. My stomach feels better, though. As soon as she came back I kind of forgot about it.

“I don’t get your father,” Guinevere says after a time. She picks a hunk off of my muffin without asking and eats it.

“Join the club. I hear they’re having jackets made,” I say, chuckling. “What, specifically don’t you get?”

“Ha,” she laughs. “Well, first he tells me that he’s never seen you happier, then an hour later he’s plotting how he can use _your_ building to earn _himself_ a silly award.”

“Ah, there lies the crux of the issue, my dear,” I say. “I know my father loves me. He doesn’t say it much… all right, ever, but it’s there. However, I also know he loves his empire more.”

“That must be very difficult for you,” she says.

“It’s all I’ve known,” I say. Now it’s my turn to shrug. “Does it hurt? Yeah, sometimes. But I’ve outgrown constantly trying to get his attention. Gain his approval. I’m a grown man, I know I’m good at my job, and I don’t need to constantly seek out approval from others, even my own father, to feel like I have worth.” If I could only get my personal life in order, I’d have a great life.

She looks at me for a moment.

“What?”

“You’re a rather complex man, Arthur. Most men are pretty simple creatures, but not you.”

“That’s a very polite way of saying that I have issues,” I say, smirking at her.

“Maybe. And I don’t mean this in a bad way, just so you know. Do you have issues? Yes. Do I _know_ what they all are? Not yet. But that doesn’t mean I like you any less,” she says.

Not _yet_. That worries me a little.

“Come on, let’s take a walk,” she says, standing. She’s finished her tea, and between us we’ve finished my muffin. My cocoa is pretty much gone now, too.

We walk outside, and it’s cloudy, but not raining. I glance up. Yet.

“May be a short walk,” I say.

“That’s all right,” she says, taking my hand.

We chat more casually now, leaving the heavy topics inside the coffee shop. She asks why I need to bring the model back to the office, and I tell her that we still need it to make the blueprints. And because it’s going to be built, it will be on display for a while in the lobby. She likes that.

She tells me about the frog brooch, that she finished it Friday so the customer can pick it up on Monday. She shows me a photo of it on her mobile. It’s really cute. It looks like it’s crawling, one leg extended back, the other up. It’s been colored green somehow (she says something about enamel), and there are little emeralds set in for its eyes. It’s holding a golden ball between its little hands. She also told me that she doesn’t normally do things like that – animals, jewelry that looks like “things” – but she took the job just for a different sort of challenge.

Just after she puts her phone away, fat raindrops start falling from the sky. We turn around and hurry back to the car, making it in just before it really starts coming down.

“Lucky,” she says, reaching over to wipe a few raindrops off my face. She had put her hood up and managed to stay a little drier than me.

“Yeah, but this is going to make it fun to move my model,” I sigh. “Must remember to stop at the office and get some plastic sheeting.”

“You have to go, huh?”

I look at my watch. “Yeah. Those monkeys won’t know what to do without the alpha monkey around to tell them,” I say, starting my car now.

I take her back to her flat, wishing I could go up there and spend this rainy Sunday afternoon cuddled with her on the couch. Maybe under a nice blanket, all cozy.

I’m going to make myself crazy.

“I never did ask, was your cocoa up to par?” she says as I pull up beside the back door to her building.

“It was. The little love-struck girl did a good job,” I chuckle. “How is your ankle today, by the way?”

“Better. Nothing a little ibuprofen and a good night’s sleep couldn’t fix,” she says, blushing slightly. Is she still feeling embarrassed about falling asleep on me?

“That’s good,” I say.

“Did I really invite you into my bed last night?” she asks, confirming my suspicion.

“I wouldn’t make that up,” I say, smiling. “I just said that you needed to go to bed, and you said, ‘Come with me.’ Then I carried you to your room and tucked you in, so I guess I _technically_ did…”

“Ah, well, there we go. No embarrassment necessary then,” she laughs.

“None was necessary even so,” I say, leaning over to kiss her. I _really_ have to go or I’m going to be late.

I cup her face with one hand, stroking her cheek with my thumb. My hands will stay in family-friendly areas today. We are in the front seat of a car.

Nevertheless, my tongue slips easily between her lips, and we lose ourselves in each other for a bit.

“You have to… go…” she mutters between kisses.

“I know,” I say, pulling away. Then I go back and kiss her a few more times.

“Arthur,” she says, laughing and pulling away. “Here, I’ll remove temptation,” she laughs, moving her hand towards the door handle. “Have fun moving your model.”

“Oh yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’ll call you later.”

“Okay,” she says, and dashes out into the rain.

I resist the urge to park my car and follow her inside. I have work to do. Maybe I can convince Father to let me have a half-day sometime to make up for this extra work.

Not likely.

I do know that while my body is going to be moving the model of a rec center, my mind is going to be in a tiny flat above a jewelry shop, on a couch with Guinevere.


	38. Day 37

Today was crazy for both of us. I had to repair my bloody model, because goon number one accidentally broke a piece of it _and_ another part of it got wet because goon number two didn’t cover it properly.

I barely heard from Guinevere because Sefa had to take the afternoon off, she was alone in the shop, and it was a strangely busy Monday.

I know why Sefa had to leave; Percival called me just as I was falling asleep last night. But I’ve been waiting to hear from either Guinevere or Percival about what happened and how the meeting went.

It’s now nearly six and I haven’t heard from Guinevere. I had texted her an hour ago, asking her to call me when she got home.

I pick up my mobile and contemplate texting her or calling her, but I set it back down. She’ll call me when she can. She’s not avoiding me.

I have corresponded with her today, so curse-wise, I’m safe. But it dawns on me that I’m not really even concerned about that element anymore. I’m more concerned about how she’s doing and that she’s working too hard.

Or that something happened to her. She was all alone in that shop all afternoon…

I should go over there. Or at least drive by and see that everything looks all right.

It’s not like she’s never called me a stalker.

I could call the number of the shop. That way if she answers, I know she’s still there. But if she doesn’t answer, then I won’t know any more than I do now.

Shit. I walk to the door to put my shoes on, and my mobile rings. Guinevere.

She’s got her own ring tone now. Has had for weeks, actually.

I kick my shoe off and grab my phone.

“I was just going to call out a search party,” I say, trying to sound like I’m not completely serious.

“Sorry, I was just walking in my door when Sefa called,” she says.

“That’s all right. So, how was the meeting, then?” I ask.

“You know about the meeting?”

“Yeah, Perce called me late last night. He was kind of freaking out about it a little bit. Was worried that even though Sefa’s magic is very weak, they’d still think it was too much of a risk or something.”

So Percival, being the Boy Scout that he is, set up a meeting with the Jousting League officials to have them meet Sefa. Basically, he wanted to let them know that he was dating a Druid (they made it official faster than Guinevere and I did. Faster than Gwaine and Leon, even) and that she wasn’t going to influence his performance on the field at all. Everyone’s very jumpy because of the Ethan Williams scandal, and he was trying to get ahead of the gossip and stop it before it would potentially begin.

I obviously never got the opportunity to tell Guinevere that I knew what was going on.

“Oh. Well that saves me having to catch you up,” she chuckles. “Sefa said that she was really scared at first, but the meeting actually went really well. They lauded Percival on his responsible thinking and thanked him for being so forthcoming and proactive.”

“Wow. I assume there were Druid officials at the meeting as well?”

“Of course,” she says. “They asked Sefa to demonstrate the level of her power, which I thought was kind of silly considering they can _tell._ But I guess it’s kind of a test of morals, too. To see if she’s going to try and slip something past them.”

“Right. Which is also silly considering they can also tell if a person _is_ trying to slip something past them.”

“I know, right?”

“What did Sefa do?”

“She did the most she could, which was dim the lights a bit,” she says. “Then she told one of the female officials, in her ear, that she was expecting a child.”

“Oh, no!” I exclaim. “I hope the official knew already!”

“She did,” Gwen laughs. “But that’s why Sefa told her in her ear. Because she didn’t know if the woman knew. Also she figured it wasn’t anyone else’s business.”

“I didn’t know she could sense pregnancy.”

“Oh, yes. She says it’s one of the easiest things for her to sense. That and when someone is talking bollocks,” she laughs. “That comes in very handy when I’m trying to get a good price on gold.”

“I imagine so,” I say, chuckling.

“She said they studied her little tattoos and asked her some more questions, like how did they meet and all that. Then she was excused and they talked to Percival for a bit.”

“They talked to Percival, too? Wasn’t he there for her meeting?”

“No, they wouldn’t allow him in. He wasn’t happy, but he had no choice, really. I guess they talked with him separately after to, you know, look for inconsistencies.”

“They take these things very seriously, magical issues. It could ruin sport if they weren’t so vigilant about it.”

“And they’re especially jumpy now,” she agrees. “So, after they talked to Percival, they conferred for a bit, which Sefa said was a little nerve-wracking. I mean, you and I know that her powers are basically nil, and she knows this as well and is quite fine with it. But there’s always that fear, you know? The ‘what if’ factor.”

Oh, I know that fear very well. I live with it every day now; it is my constant companion. “Yeah. But I assume since you seem to be fairly happy, they gave their blessing?”

“Yes, they did. They called them both back in, told them that they wished them the best, and even had an official document for them saying that Sefa was essentially approved to date Percival. Kind of bizarre, but there you go.”

“I guess they want to keep everything on the up-and-up in case some rag gets a hold of it and tries to drag Percival’s name through the mud. Which is laughable. I _dare_ someone to try and find something scandalous about him,” I chuckle. “I’ve known him my whole life, and the worst thing I remember him doing was accidentally killing a bird with a pellet gun.”

“Oh dear,” she says, laughing a little. “What kind of bird was it?”

“It was a stupid crow. Bloody sky-rat. He cried for hours.”

“How old were you?” she asks.

“Fourteen,” I say.

“What??”

“Kidding. I think we were seven.”

“Oh, that makes much more sense,” she laughs. “Fourteen…” she repeats, still laughing.

“Have I told you that I love your laugh?” I say. Strangely, that makes her stop laughing.

“Do you?” she asks. “I always thought it was too loud.”

“No, it’s wonderful. It’s so… uninhibited,” I say. I wish I could feel that kind of freedom.

“Oh,” she says. “I guess that’s why you try to make me laugh so much, huh?”

“Perhaps,” I say. Her laugh makes me forget my troubles almost as much as her kisses do. “So now that we’ve talked about Percival and Sefa, how are _you?_ You sound tired.”

“I am. I think it’s another night for a bubble bath and a book,” she says.

“You read in the bath?”

“Have to do something in there,” she says.

My brain manages to conjure up one possible _something_ before I will it to shut the hell up and step out of the gutter.

“I mean, otherwise it’s just sitting in water, right?” she adds.

“I seem to recall you had your mobile in there with you one time recently,” I say. “I still have that picture of your ankle.”

“I was playing that stupid addictive candy game that time,” she says, laughing.

“Ah. Have you eaten?”

“Am about to; sorry, darling. I have a headache and I’m just exhausted,” she apologizes.

“It’s all right, I’m pretty beat, too. And I’ve eaten already anyway.” I would have again had she wanted me to have dinner with her. I was starving when I got home since I barely got lunch.

“I recommend a bubble bath,” she says.

“Men do not take bubble baths,” I say. “We do manly things, like… um… chopping down trees, and… wrestling wild boars, and…”

“Shooting crows with pellet guns?” she adds, laughing again.

“Yes,” I say. “Definitely _not_ bubble baths.” Actually, it doesn’t sound like the worst idea in the world. Not that I’d admit that to anyone.

But if I did admit it to someone, it would be Guinevere.

“Well, take it easy; watch a movie with lots of things exploding or something,” she says. Something goes _ping_ in the background.

“Something manly, right? Was that your dinner pinging just now?”

“Yes, it was,” she says.

“I’ll let you go so you can eat,” I say.

“Okay. Goodnight, Arthur. Sleep well.”

“Thank you. You, too.”

 

xXx

 

I wind up falling asleep on my couch in front of the telly and miss the end of the football match I was watching. Must not have been a very exciting one.

It’s nearly eleven when I wake up, and I grab my nearly-dead mobile and shuffle to my room. When I plug it into its charger, I notice a text.

_G: Miss you._

I forgot to say that, too. I frown. Then I notice she only sent it ten minutes ago.

_A: Miss you, too._

_G: Shouldn’t you be sleeping?_

_A: I just woke up on the couch. Shouldn’t you be?_

_G: Just turned off the telly._

_A: Dream of me._

Why did I write that?

_G: I usually do._

I stare. She does?

I don’t know how to reply to that. If I say “I hope they’re good dreams” I’ll sound kind of pervy. If I say “good” I’ll sound arrogant.

Aha.

_A: :)_

Smiley face is pretty safe. Winking smiley would go back into the “pervy” category. I set my phone down on the nightstand and head into my bathroom.

I look tired. I _am_ tired. Bone-weary. Between seeing Leon and Gwaine together Saturday night and hearing about Percival and Sefa tonight, I’ve realized how much I long for what they have: a normal, happy relationship. Guinevere and I _are_ happy. My father was right when he said that I haven’t been this happy in at least two years.

But it’s been longer even than two years. This is the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life. The paradox, though, is that I discovered this happiness because of this bloody curse, but this happiness is also fleeting because of this bloody curse.

I’m happy when I allow myself to be or when she makes me forget about my troubles. _When you forget your problems and your worries and just let yourself be with me._ That’s what she said. I don’t think she realizes that she’s the one that makes that happen.

She’s like my talisman against the darkness, my unknowing protector against the demons living in my head.

I collapse into my bed.

I have to figure out how to hold onto her.

I can’t do this anymore.

I can’t live this life any longer.


	39. Day 38

_G: Do you have lunch plans?_

_A: Not at the moment. Do I have some now?_

_G: Yes. Bringing food to your office, since you seem to be glued there this week._

I look at the time. Shit, it’s after 12 already. Morning got away from me.

_A: Sounds good._

_G: See you in 15._

_A: I’ll be here._

I notice she doesn’t ask me what I want to eat. This makes me curious. But she seems to know me so well already, so she probably can figure out what I like.

A soft knock comes on my open door 17 minutes later, followed by a “Hey.” I look up from my computer screen to see her standing in my doorway with a paper bag in one hand and one of those cardboard drink trays in the other. She also has a shopping bag looped over the forearm that’s holding the tray.

“Guinevere,” I say, standing and meeting her as she walks in. I close the door behind her so we won’t be disturbed and take the bag from her. It’s fairly heavy, and from the logo on the front, she’s been to Stone Bowl, so there must be soup inside.

“Hello,” she says. We set the food down on my desk and I pull her into my arms to say hello properly, kissing her softly and slowly.

“Hello,” I say after our lips reluctantly part. “What’s in the other bag?”

She laughs and I release her. “I brought you a present,” she says, handing me the bag.

“A present? What did I do to deserve a present?” I ask. “Oh, have a seat,” I say, motioning to one of the two extra chairs that are positioned in front of my desk. I sit in the other one and peek into the bag. “What on earth?” I ask, pulling out something made of soft material. It’s red and it has small Camelot Dragons logos all over it in gold. I look over at her and she’s grinning at me.

“Unfold it,” she prompts. She’s very excited. It’s very cute.

I unfold it and it’s a pair of soft cotton pajama bottoms. They even look the right size. I just start laughing. “These are brilliant, thank you,” I say, leaning over to kiss her.

“So you like them?” she asks. “I was a little unsure, because you said you didn’t have any and you sounded a bit like you didn’t see the need for them, but I saw them on Sunday – I went shopping while you were doing your work stuff – and I just had to buy them for you—mm!”

I stop her ramble with a kiss, which is a bit difficult considering I’m still laughing. “I love them, thank you,” I finally say.

“Oh, good,” she sighs.

I fold them up and put them back in their bag. I may have to put them on tonight when I get home, just to try them out. Or maybe she can come over and see me wear them in person.

“Thank you,” I repeat, kissing her one more time. “So, what did you bring for us to eat?” I ask. “I’m hungry.”

“Me, too.” She takes the drinks off the tray and hands me one and then digs into the bag. “We have… cream of chicken with wild rice or minestrone.”

“Which do you prefer?” I ask.

“I think I’d like the minestrone,” she says.

I love that she isn’t afraid to express her opinion. So many girls I’ve dated would just insist that I choose, swearing that she doesn’t have a preference. Then I’d choose, invariably take the one she wanted and then she would pout until I gave it to her anyway. Honestly. Such a bloody headache.

“Okay,” I say, taking the other one. “This is different. I don’t normally sit over on this side,” I say.

“I don’t imagine you would,” she says.

“To tell the truth, these chairs barely get used at all. This is really good,” I say, offering her a spoonful. She opens her mouth and leans in and I feed her some soup.

“Mmm, that is good,” she says. “Would you like to try some of mine?”

“Sure.” She lifts her spoon towards me and I let her feed me some of her soup. It’s also very good, but I think I’m glad I got this one. I like the thicker creamed soups. I know they’re not as healthy, but I just like them better.

Of course the minestrone tastes better than it actually is because she’s feeding it to me.

“Good,” I say.

“You like yours better,” she smirks.

“Yeah.”

“Mm. Before I forget: what are you doing tomorrow night?”

“I don’t know. What _am_ I doing tomorrow night?” I ask.

She laughs. “You are coming with me to celebrate Sefa’s birthday. She wants to go to Wingspread and get her groove on. Or something like that.”

“Sure,” I say. Wingspread is a trendy club. It’ll be crowded and loud. But maybe it won’t be too crowded because it’ll be Wednesday.

“You don’t have to pretend like it’s someplace you _want_ to go, Arthur,” she laughs. “Percival will be there.”

“I should hope he will be there. And it’s not that I don’t want to go, honest. It’s just I’m not much for that type of place. I prefer a quieter pub to a crowded nightclub that plays that loud _mmm-tss mmm-tss mmm-tss_ music all the time.”

She laughs at me some more, then stops. “You can’t dance, can you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“Not really. Not in any way that anyone would want to see, at least,” I say, and she starts laughing again.

“Well, I hope you can at least _slow_ dance,” she says, looking down at her soup and then peeking up at me.

“I think I can manage that, yes,” I say, smiling at her. I’ll be more than happy to hold her in my arms and sway to some still-probably-bad music. It’s the holding her in my arms that’s the important part.

“Good,” she declares, smiling at me again.

“So… what are you doing _tonight,_ then?” I ask.

Her smile fades. “I’m, um, going to the cemetery to visit my parents,” she says softly.

“Oh,” I say. I don’t offer to go with. If she wants my company, she will ask.

“I go every year on this date, actually,” she says quietly, picking off a hunk of her bread and eating it. “It’s their wedding anniversary. I don’t go on the anniversaries of their deaths.”

I nod. “You’d rather go on a happier day,” I say.

“Yes. I visit Elyan on his birthday.”

“That makes sense. That’s when I visit my mum.”

“You visit your mum on Elyan’s birthday?” she asks, a small smile creeping over her face now.

I laugh a little. “You know what I mean.”

“I know. But I couldn’t resist.” She takes a few bites of her soup. “You’re not offended that I’m not asking you along?” she asks cautiously.

“No, of course not,” I say. “Some things a person just needs to do alone.”

She nods, looking down into her soup.

“Hey,” I say, reaching over and gently lifting her chin. “It’s okay, really. Besides,” I add, smiling now, “I don’t know if I’m prepared to meet your father yet, anyway.” She smiles now, and giggles a little. “There’s my smile,” I say, stroking her cheek with my fingertips. My bowl is empty, so I tuck my napkin into it, put the lid back on, and put it back in the bag.

“Thank you for understanding,” she says. “I’d come over after, but I doubt I’ll be good company. Usually I just want to go home and crawl into bed. Maybe with a bowl of ice cream,” she giggles again.

“Tomorrow night, then,” I say. “It’s always interesting being in public with Percival. He seems to think that people won’t recognize him because he wears a helmet when he’s jousting. I usually have to remind him that his photo is in the programs and that he’s built like a tree.”

“Oh, dear,” Guinevere says, chuckling.

“He really doesn’t mind it, but occasionally fans don’t respect boundaries. That’s when Leon and I generally step in and tell people to back off. He’s too nice to do it.”

“Oh, I think Leon and Gwaine will be there tomorrow, too. Sefa mentioned something about it.” She’s finished her soup now, too, and we clear everything away and put it in the bin.

“Well, it’ll definitely be a party, then,” I say. “Anyone else?”

“A friend of Sefa’s that I think I’ve met once. Another Druid called Freya. She’s very sweet but very quiet. Sefa says she’ll probably stay for one non-alcoholic drink and go home.”

“Well, it’s nice of her to come out, though,” I say.

“I think Freya’s a nurse or something. So she may have early hours, I don’t know.”

“Should be fun,” I say. Mental note: get some flowers or something for Sefa tomorrow.

“I should let you get back to work,” she says.

Oh, yes, please do let me get back to the exciting world of land surveys. “I have some time yet. I mean, if you do. Um, you don’t have to hurry off, I mean.”

“I was in the middle of cutting out leaves from a sheet of silver. Not in any real hurry to get back to that,” she says, flexing her fingers to illustrate her point.

I remember the tiny saw on her workbench with its almost-invisible blade. I take her hand and kiss each finger, then the fleshy pad where her thumb meets her palm. Her hands are slender and delicate, but very strong.

Then I pull her into my lap and wrap my arms around her. She sighs and leans against me, her hand on my chest, just letting me hold her.

“Mmm, now I _really_ don’t want to go back,” she says, leaning her head on my shoulder.

“You fit perfectly in my arms, have you noticed that?” I ask.

I was about due for my mouth to start running away on its own anyway.

I feel her smile against my neck. “I have,” she says.

I tighten my arms around her, and I feel her kiss my neck. Her hand on my chest slides up around my neck, and my lips find hers.

 

xXx

 

These trousers are fantastic. After Guinevere left my office, I took them out of the bag again and held them up to my waist to double check the size. I think about trying them on, but decide I can wait till I get home.

The only problem is that it’s getting warmer out and come summer, it’ll be too warm even for these soft cotton trousers.

I’ll just need to get some shorts.

I have no idea if Guinevere is home yet or not, but it’s getting dark out, so I would imagine she’s at least on her way home.

I take out my mobile, snap a photo of myself, and send it to her along with a text.

_A: WHERE HAVE THESE BEEN ALL MY LIFE?_

Chuckling, I set my phone on the coffee table and settle back in on the couch.

My mobile rings a short time later and I am greeted by the sound of Guinevere’s laughter.

“Oh, they’ve been around, you just never paid attention,” she tells me. “You look very cute in them.”

“Ah, yes, cute is what I was striving for,” I say, laughing. “I need to get more of these. And maybe some shorts for summer.”

“I’ve created a monster,” she says. I can hear her moving around.

“Are you in bed already?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says. “Just settling in to watch _Undead Zone_ , in fact.”

“Oh, shit, is it that late already?” I ask, grabbing my remote and flipping the channel. There’s still about five minutes yet. “Do you have your ice cream?”

“No, not hungry.”

“Did you have a nice visit?” I ask.

“Yes, thank you. I bring a bag of crisps for my dad and some lilacs for my mum.”

“Is he where you get your love of crisps?”

She giggles. “Yes. I used to sit in his lap when I was little and the two of us would destroy one of those big bags.”

I smile, picturing it. Young Guinevere in my mind’s eye looks just like my dream daughter, I notice.

“I told them about you.”

“Good things, I hope,” I say, trying to keep the mood light.

“Of course. And no, I’m not going to tell you what I told them,” she says.

“That’s between you and them,” I say simply.

“I love that you understand this,” she says quietly.

“Well, I have a dead parent, too, so it’s not that difficult.”

“I know. Thank you just the same.”

We sit in silence for a minute.

“Show’s on,” she says. “Watch it with me?”

“Love to,” I say, getting comfortable again. Not as good as having her here in person, but I’ll take what I can get.

While I can get it.


	40. Day 39

I had flowers delivered to the shop for Sefa (with a balloon) rather than giving them to her tonight. That way she wouldn’t have to look after them at the club.

She was completely surprised and Guinevere thought it was very sweet of me. So, win-win.

I’m not going to drink tonight. I have enough difficulty not running off at the mouth around Guinevere while I’m sober; I don’t need alcohol to further loosen my lips. So, I offer to drive.

I’ll pick up Guinevere first and then we’ll go to Sefa’s to collect her and Percival. Gwaine and Leon are on their own. They’ll likely wind up heading over to Cenred’s at some point, anyway.

Gwen comes down looking amazing in those shortened trousers that girls sometimes wear – I think they’re called Capri pants or something – and a snug black v-necked t-shirt.

“Hi,” she says, leaning up to kiss me.

“Hello there,” I say. “You look really good.”

“Not so bad, yourself,” she shoots back. “Is this the white shirt that you spilled soy sauce on?”

“Yes, the one that _you_ rescued for me,” I smile.

“You look really good in white,” she says. “It’s almost strange how well it works on you.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised. I didn’t know this. “Thank you.”

She smiles and climbs into the car. I close her door and walk around to my side.

Guinevere directs me to Sefa’s house. She has a proper house, not a flat. It’s her father’s, I learn, so it pretty much is Sefa’s because her father isn’t going to be coming back to it.

I am just about to get out and ring the doorbell, but they come outside before I get the chance.

Sefa looks like she always looks, in one of those flowing skirts and a flowing shirt. She has her hair pulled back and there’s a large flower tucked into it. Percival is wearing jeans and a tight grey t-shirt. If Gwaine looks like a catalog model, Percival looks like a men’s fitness magazine cover boy.

“Hey,” Gwen says when they climb into the back seat. “Percival, you can sit up here if you’ll be more comfortable,” she offers.

“Nah, I’m good. But if you could move your seat forward a bit, I’d appreciate it,” he says.

“Sure,” she says, scooting her seat forward as far as she can.

We chat easily on the way to the club, and it becomes quite clear quite quickly that Percival and Sefa have fallen very hard for each other. They’re not overly lovey-dovey or sickening to watch, though. There’s an overwhelming sense of _rightness_ that just pours from them. Completeness. A complete stranger could tell by how he looks at her and how she looks at him that they are _it_ for each other and everyone else pales in comparison.

I realize that I am positively green with envy. Yes, I’m very happy for them; Percival is the best and deserves to be deliriously happy like this.

But I want that. I really, _really_ do.

I decide to spring for valet parking rather than trying to find a spot. It doesn’t appear to be too terribly busy right now, which is good.

We walk to the door and the bouncer immediately recognizes Percival. He shakes his hand, tells him he is a fan, and also tells him that Percival will always get in this club if he’s working the door. Percival smiles politely and thanks him. He is actually bigger than the bouncer, which makes Guinevere laugh.

The bouncer waves us inside and immediately people’s mobiles start appearing, taking photos of Percival. Some people are at least making an attempt to be cool about it, but others are ridiculously blatant.

Percival is polite, just nodding, his arm around Sefa as we make our way to the bar. We decide to order drinks and then find a table.

I look around while we wait for a barman. As I predicted, the music is too loud, lights are flashing, and there’s a twat DJ up in the corner running the show.

I’m not old. But I feel old here.

“Bloody hell, it looks like everyone in here is 22 or 23,” Percival leans down and says in my ear.

“Yeah, mate, I was just thinking that I feel old,” I laugh.

We finally give our order to the barman – barmaid, actually, who openly and unsuccessfully flirts with both Percival and me – and when I tell her I’ll have a bottle of water, she asks me if I’m the designated driver.

“Yes,” I say. She reaches under the bar and withdraws a plastic tube, which she flexes and waves around until it starts glowing green. Then she attaches one end to the other and hands it to me.

I stare at it. “Yes?” I ask. Vaguely I notice one or two other people around wearing one of those glowing things.

“Put this on. It’s a necklace, silly. That way no one will sell you any alcohol. It’s what we do here.”

“Do I have to?” I don’t want to wear this blasted thing all night. I’m not some 21-year-old idiot with no sense of self-control.

If there’s one thing I definitely have, it’s self-control.

“Well… I _guess_ not. As long as you _promise_ me that you’ll be a good boy,” she says coquettishly. I glance at Guinevere and roll my eyes. She smirks at me and leans in closer.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, he can be trusted,” Gwen says, clearly irritated by this barmaid.

“Fine,” she huffs and set the necklace back behind the bar. She fixes our drinks, and I watch closely to make sure she doesn’t spit in Guinevere’s glass or do something else infantile and petty.

“I got this one,” I say, and pay for the drinks. “Sefa, happy birthday,” I say, handing her her appletini. Guinevere has a vodka and cranberry, and Percival has a pint. He’s a man of simple tastes. We find a table in a corner and munch pretzels from a basket sitting there.

Periodically people approach us asking Percival if he’s him and can they get an autograph or photo. I have to say Sefa takes it all in stride, even gazing proudly at him as he graciously deals with his fans.

Leon and Gwaine stroll in half an hour late.

“Gwaine is really corrupting you, mate,” I say, laughing at Leon as they pull more chairs up to the table. They’ve already got drinks.

“I was working, you wanker,” Gwaine says, defending himself.

“Speaking of which, where is Freya?” Gwen asks Sefa.

“She’ll be along. Got stuck at work, too,” she says. “She said she’d text me when she was almost here so we can look for her.”

Leon and Gwaine wish Sefa happy birthday, and present her with a card containing a gift card to a garden center in town.

“I know, gift cards are kind of a cop-out, but Percival told us how much you love your garden. And we wanted to give you something that wouldn’t get lost or stolen in here,” Leon explains.

“No, it’s perfect, I love it, thank you,” Sefa says, coming around to hug each of them. “You two are very happy together. It’s wonderful to see,” she says, smiling. Then she returns to her seat. She hands the gift card to Percival. “Would you, please, Love?”

“Of course,” he says, pocketing the card for safekeeping.

“No pockets,” Sefa explains.

“What did you get from Gwen?” Leon asks.

“She got me this really big cookbook I’ve been wanting for a while now, and a new set of kitchen tools,” Sefa says. “I was still using my mum’s old ones. Broke a spoon last week,” she giggles.

“I broke it, actually,” Percival admits. “Felt bloody terrible about it, too, but all Sefa did was laugh at me.” He grins now, looking over at her. She leans up and kisses his cheek.

Just then Sefa’s phone lights up on the table with a text message. She picks it up. “Freya’s here.”

“I’ll come with,” Percival says.

“Why don’t you wait here? We’ll never make it to the door if you come along because people will keep stopping you,” Sefa says gently.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he acquiesces, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

“Gwen, will you come?” Sefa stands and asks.

“Sure,” Guinevere says, standing.

“Man, you are in deep,” Leon says once the ladies have gone, chuckling at Percival.

“Yep, and I wouldn’t change a thing,” Percival answers. “And you should talk, Mr. Moving-In-With-My-Boyfriend.”

“Shut it. I never said I wasn’t a hypocrite,” Leon laughs. “And what about this one, hey?” he asks, pointing his thumb at me. “Never seen him quite so gone before.”

“Me?” They can tell? These are men; they’re not supposed to be intuitive.

“Yeah, you, mate. Chickadee’s got you wrapped around her little finger and you couldn’t be happier to be there,” Gwaine adds.

“Probably,” I admit.

“Tough guy, this one,” Gwaine teases.

“They’re coming,” Percival says, watching the ladies approach our table. I pull over another chair for Freya.

“Lads, this is Freya,” Sefa introduces. “Freya, this is Percival, Arthur, Leon, and Gwaine.”

“There’ll be a quiz later,” Gwaine says.

“Hello,” Freya says, smiling. She’s a pale brunette, pretty in a bookish sort of way, her hair back in a loose bun. She has water lilies tattooed on the inside of her forearm and I can see another tattoo peeking out of the collar of her v-neck shirt. It looks like it’s on her shoulder and it must be quite large. It looks vaguely like it could be part of an animal. I think I see a black tail and part of a paw. I can’t make it out without staring, so I guess it’ll remain a mystery.

“Freya, can I get you a drink?” I ask.

“Yes, thank you, just a ginger beer, please,” she says.

“Back in a flash… I hope,” I say, and go back to the bar.

When I return, Leon and Gwaine are asking Freya about her job, and Gwaine is trying to get her to divulge grisly or intimate details about some patients she’s attended. To her credit, she doesn’t cave.

“Here we are,” I say, setting a bottle and a glass on the table in front of her. She pours the soda into her glass and thanks me again.

“I’ll have to give you your gift later, Sefa. I didn’t want to bring it to the club,” Freya says.

“Okay,” Sefa says. “Whenever; I’m just glad you came out.”

“I can’t stay too long, sorry,” she says.

“I know. You’re exhausted; I understand,” Sefa tells her, clasping her hand a moment.

We chat a bit longer, laughter flowing easily. Percival gets the next round of drinks. I mainly watch Guinevere, watch how she leans in so she can hear who is talking to her, watch how she really _listens_ to someone when they talk. She looks quite fetching in the dim light, and the colored flashing lights shine against her dark curls, tinting them red, then blue, then purple, then green, then orange.

I hear a snort beside me and I look over to see Leon giving me a _look_ and Gwaine is holding up his little finger, illustrating his earlier statement about me.

“Piss off,” I mutter.

“I want to dance. Can we dance?” Sefa asks.

“I think that’s my cue to leave,” Freya laughs. “I’m terribly clumsy,” she explains. “You’d think that I’d be able to magic myself some coordination, but thus far, it hasn’t worked.”

“Can you do that?” Gwaine asks.

“Maybe someone more powerful than I can, but I haven’t been able to figure it out yet,” she says. “Percival, Gwaine, Leon, Arthur, it was nice to meet you.”

“She got it right!” Gwaine exclaims.

Freya just smiles. “Sefa, happy birthday,” she says, hugging Sefa. “Gwen, always good to see you.” She gives Gwen a hug and says something in Gwen’s ear. Gwen looks serious for a second, then gives Freya a small smile and nods.

Shit. Freya has more tattoos than Sefa. Don’t panic. You don’t know what she’s told Guinevere. Be cool. This is not the time for panicking.

Freya looks down at me, and I pick up my water bottle to hide my face somewhat. She gives me what appears to be a sad smile, and makes her exit.

Now I need to know what she told Guinevere.

“Come on,” Sefa tugs Gwen’s hand. “Gentlemen?”

“I’ll come,” Gwaine pipes up and stands, to no one’s surprise. He slings his arms around the shoulders of both women and escorts them to the dance floor.

“There go the ladies,” Percival says, smirking at Leon. Leon throws a pretzel at him.

I watch Guinevere dance. It’s a good show. She’s not a fantastic dancer, but she’s good. Certainly doesn’t seem to be concerned that she’s not the best dancer on the floor. Sefa is very fluid and flowing, and Gwaine is tearing up the floor, as is to be expected.

But mainly I watch my Guinevere. Occasionally a bloke will approach her and try to dance with her, and she always turns him away, holding her hands up. Sometimes I see her saying “no.” Occasionally Gwaine comes up and grinds behind her, which she allows. She’ll dance with Gwaine, but no one else. One time Sefa and Gwen even sandwich Gwaine, making the three of us at the table laugh like crazy people.

I like the fact that she won’t dance with any other man. If she wanted to, I couldn’t really say anything (unless he got inappropriate), but I’m glad that she doesn’t seem to want to.

They come back, Leon gets another round, and DJ DoucheMonkey or whatever he calls himself finally plays a slow song. We all get pulled to the dance floor now.

“About time he played something slow,” Guinevere says, winding her arms around my neck as my hands find her waist.

“I don’t know, I was rather enjoying watching you dance,” I say. I love holding her so close.

“I know,” she says. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you watching me like a hawk,” she grins at me.

“Well, of course I was. Have to make sure you’re safe,” I say, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

“Safe, right. If by ‘safe’ you mean ‘not dancing with other men,’” she laughs at me.

I have to laugh with her, because there’s nothing else for it. She’s got my number and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I pull her closer, sliding my hands on her back a little, and we dance silently for a few minutes, just enjoying being together.

“Guinevere,” I say after a time, “um, what did Freya say in your ear?”

“You saw that, huh?”

“Yeah. Can you tell me?”

“You’re really worried,” she says, looking up at me. She caresses my cheek with her hand and leans up to kiss me. “She told me that you are heartsick and that you need looking after.”

I suppose that’s true.

“So really not anything different than what Sefa said,” she adds.

“And nothing you didn’t already know,” I say. I’m relieved. I feel better. I don’t think Freya would have “outed” me even if she could see what my real problem is. She only just met me tonight, and she is much too kind to do something like that.

Kind of explains why I’ve never dated a Druid while under this curse, though.

“I saw her say something to you, and then I remembered her tattoos are bigger and more numerous than Sefa’s, and then she gave me this strange look, so _then_ I had to know what she told you.”

She smirks up at me now. “Would have been nice if she was giving me the winning lottery numbers. Or telling me to… avoid the third stall in the ladies’ because it’s broken. Or—”

“If it was winning lottery numbers, promise you’ll share?”

“Of course,” she smiles up at me. “Wait. Aren’t you rich anyway?”

“Oh, that’s right, I forgot,” I say, grinning down at her. I kiss her forehead once more.

Her fingers are threading absently through my hair. It feels nice. “Guys _were_ checking you out on the dance floor, you know,” I say.

“I was ignoring them. If you’d come dance with me, it wouldn’t be a problem,” she says.

“No one wants that,” I say, laughing.

“I do,” she says. “But I won’t force you. We’ll just have to have a private dance party sometime.”

I must have _some_ expression on my face, because she immediately adds, “That didn’t come out quite right, did it?”

“I knew what you meant,” I laugh. The song ends and the music turns fast again. It was then I realized I did not even notice what song was playing.

 

xXx

 

Guinevere is not completely drunk, but she is definitely very happy and relaxed. It’s around 11:30, and Gwaine and Leon have just bailed to Cenred’s. They invite us along, but we decline. Percival says that he doesn’t want to disappoint the men there by having to break the news to them that he’s straight.

“I think we can go home,” Sefa says. She’s about evenly matched with Guinevere in the drunkenness department. Percival has had several pints and still seems sober as a judge. I suppose it takes a lot for someone his size to get pissed.

“Guinevere, you ready?” I ask.

“Yep,” she nods and takes my hand. “You can definitely take me home.”

We walk to the doors and I give my ticket to the valet. While we’re standing outside, I notice someone with a proper camera (not a mobile phone), snap a few photos of the four of us. I hope Gwen and Sefa don’t look too inebriated. I don’t think the others noticed.

My car arrives and we all pile in. “Percival, am I taking you to Sefa’s or to your place?” Percival stays with his mum when he’s in town. Though I suspect lately he’s spending more and more time at Sefa’s.

“Sefa’s,” he says quietly in the back seat.

“Hmm?” Sefa asks, looking up from where her head is resting on his shoulder.

“Nothing, Love, just telling Arthur to go to your house.”

“’Kay.”

I drop them off and Percival unlocks the door. He waves from the porch and I head to Guinevere’s.

“She’s gonna get a good birthday present,” Gwen mutters from her seat.

“Guinevere!” I exclaim, laughing in my surprise. I mean, yeah, I was kind of thinking the same thing, but I wasn’t going to say anything. None of our business. Of course, I’ve been drinking water all night while Gwen’s been drinking vodka and cranberries.

“Just saying, is all. You were thinking it, too,” she says, poking me in the shoulder.

“Maybe,” I say, and she giggles.

I pull into her lot a short time later and turn off my car.

“You’re coming up?” she asks, her voice hopeful.

“I’m going to see that you get safely inside,” I say. “It’s late, and you’re not exactly sober.”

“’M not exactly drunk, either,” she says.

I get out and walk around to open her door for her. We go to the door and she takes out her key. I gently remove it from her hand and unlock the door for her.

“Hey,” she protests weakly.

“I want to get us inside before midnight,” I say, chuckling at her.

“Hey!” she protests a little stronger. “I’m not that gone!”

I guide her up the stairs and unlock her door.

“I’m safely inside,” she says, stepping inside with careful deliberation, as if she’s trying to prove a point. But she stumbles a little. “Now what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to go home and go to sleep. We have to work tomorrow.” I’d like to stay. She obviously wants me to stay. But I’m not going to do anything other than kiss her goodnight because she’s not thinking clearly and not in complete control of her faculties.

She pouts. “You’re not staying?”

“Not tonight, darling. You need to go to bed.”

“Come with me?”

“Trying again, are we? Very well,” I say, bending down and picking her up. I carry her to her bedroom and set her on her bed. “There, I came with you,” I say. I bend down and kiss her forehead.

“I need to put my pajamas on,” she says. “And my shoes are on.” She lifts up her foot and wiggles it a little.

I take the foot and remove its shoe, then do the other. “You’re on your own for pajamas,” I declare. “Get some sleep now or you’ll feel bloody awful tomorrow.”

I walk back over and kiss her, this time on the lips, and she holds my face in her hands, holding me to her longer than I was intending.

I gently pull away.

“One more?”

“One more. Then go. To sleep.” I feel like I’m tucking in a rambunctious toddler who is insisting that she isn’t tired. I kiss her once more. “Good night,” I whisper.

“Sleep good, Love,” she says, her voice sleepier now. I notice she’s turning on her side and snuggling into her bed, crashing pretty swiftly now.

“I’ll lock the doorknob like I did the other time,” I say.

“Mmkay,” she says.

As I walk away, I hear her once more behind me. “You’re really fffrustrating sometimes, you know that?” It’s a very quiet statement, but it stops me in my tracks.

“I know, Sweet. I’m sorry.” I turn around and see that her eyes are already closed and her breathing is slow and regular.

I close the door, check that it’s locked, and walk down the stairs, tired and… just _tired._

I’m very glad that I didn’t drink. Between Freya earlier and tipsy Guinevere just now, I’ve had my hands and my mind full.

At home, in my own bed, in the safety of the dark, I will fully admit that Gwaine is correct. I am completely wrapped around Guinevere’s little finger and I am quite happy to be there.

I just wish it could last. I only have 20 days left.

That’s just not enough.


	41. Day 40

_A: How are you feeling today?_

I send the text shortly after 9:30. Give her a chance to wake up. I know she’s at work already, but I figured I’d still wait.

_G: Headache. I didn’t drink that much…_

_A: You’re just not accustomed to it. You weren’t completely gone, though._

_G: But my brain-to-mouth filter was inactivated. I do remember what I said last night._

_A: You were fine. Just wanted me to come to bed with you again. And I did, the same way I did last time._

_G: I remember. :) Did I tell you that you were frustrating or did I just think that? I think I was falling asleep already._

_A: You told me. I said that I know and that I was sorry, but you were already asleep, I think._

_G: Sorry._

_A: Don’t be. You have every right to find me frustrating._

Getting a little frustrated myself, to be honest.

_G: Most of the time I’m fine. You know that._

_A: I do. And I do appreciate your patience with me._

_G: I know._

She’s probably really thinking, “You’d better.” She’s just far too sweet to say it to my face.

_G: So I woke up at 2 and I was still dressed. Got up, peed, changed, and went back to sleep._

_A: You still remembered to tell me to sleep well._

_G: I know. Did you?_

_A: Pretty good. Could use another hour or so._

_G: No kidding._

I get a phone call and have to abandon our conversation. Things are really getting busy for me, what with the groundbreaking for the rec center next Wednesday.

After lunch, Guinevere calls me.

“We’re in the tabloids,” she says, rather unceremoniously.

“We are?” I ask. “Oh, shit, I remember seeing a bloke with a camera when we came out of the club…”

“Percival stopped in the shop with a copy to show us before he left town. His mum spotted it at the market this morning. She was flipping through it while in the queue to check out, and saw the photo. They weren’t exactly kind to him.”

“Shit. What does it say?”

“Well, there’s a photo of the four of us waiting for your car. The headline reads, ‘Henderson Romancing Druid?’ Percival and Sefa are holding hands and he’s even looking at her in that way he has. And then they have those little inset things where they’ve got a grainy blow-up of Sefa’s wrist tattoos so people can definitely see them. You know, proving she’s a Druid.”

“Great…” I say. “What else does it say?”

“It says, ‘Percival Henderson, star knight from the Camelot Dragons, was seen out canoodling with a Druid girl at Wingspread Wednesday night, accompanied by longtime friend and architectural scion Arthur Pendragon and a mystery girl.’ I’m a mystery girl,” she says, chuckling. “It goes on: ‘Is it possible that Henderson, normally a pillar of morality and good behavior, has been enchanted by this girl, who our sources identify as Sefa Ruadan, daughter of notorious Dark Druid Nigel Ruadan? Even if he’s not under her spell, is it wise for Henderson to be seen with a Druid on his arm in the middle of the Williams scandal?’”

“Bloody hell, doesn’t anyone do any _proper_ research at that rag? If they’d bother to contact the league, the team, or Percival’s manager, they’d learn right away that everything is above board,” I say. This makes me angry. They can’t drag my friend’s name through the mud like this.

“I know, it’s terribly unfair. But Percival said his manager has already contacted the editor of _The Seer_ to set the record straight and let them know that Sefa has been cleared by the league.”

“He’d better demand that they issue a retraction.”

“Oh, he did. I asked. He’s also going to provide them a press release.”

“He’d better send it out to a few places,” I say. Percival’s manager is good. Shrewd. He’ll stomp this fire out before it turns into a pyre.

“So, you saw someone take our picture last night?”

“Yeah, but I really didn’t think anything of it at the time. And besides, what would I have done that wouldn’t have made me look like a tosser, really? If I told him to piss off or something, the article likely would be even worse as a result, maybe even labeling me a ‘hothead’ or a ‘bully.’ Which isn’t true, either.”

“Good point. And then you would have to deal with Uther, too,” she adds.

“And no one wants that.”

“Right.” She pauses a moment. “At least Sefa and I don’t look completely smashed, so that’s good.”

“I’m sure you both look lovely,” I say. “How is Sefa today?”

“She’s feeling better than I am. Was. My head’s a bit better than it was this morning, but I think it’s going to be an early night nevertheless.”

“Just as well, I guess. I have a dinner meeting with the planning committee for the groundbreaking anyway,” I say.

“I remember,” she says.

“I’d _like_ to see you, of course. But we have lunch tomorrow, don’t we?”

“Darn right, we do,” she says. “Wouldn’t miss our Friday lunch.”

“Arthur,” my father appears in my doorway.

“I hear your father. Talk to you later,” she says.

 

xXx

 

_A: This is turning into a circus._

_G: What is, the groundbreaking?_

_A: Yeah. They’re trying to get the Prime Minister to come out._

_G: Really?_

_A: Seems a bit unnecessary to me. It’s only a rec center._

_G: Did you tell them that?_

_A: I did. They looked at me as though I’d just sprouted horns._

_G: LOL. I’m still invited, right?_

_A: Of course. You’re much prettier than the PM._

_G: Gee, thanks._

_A: It’s true._

_G: It had better be. The PM looks like a wombat._

_A: LOL, never noticed that. But you’re right. How are you feeling?_

_G: Headache is back. It’s a good thing I don’t go out much._

_A: I know. I felt old there._

_G: You, too? I’ve been thinking about it, and I think my headache is more from the environment than the alcohol._

_A: I’m sure it didn’t help. All the flashing lights and the dancing._

_G: Don’t forget the mmm-tss mmm-tss mmm-tss music._

_A: Oh, God, deliver me from the mmm-tss mmm-tss mmm-tss._

_G: Stop making me laugh, it makes my head hurt._

_A: Sorry. :(_

_G: It’s okay. You didn’t know._

_A: Perce texted me. Said that the tabloid has been subdued._

_G: Oh, good._

_A: He’s going to have to give them an interview, though._

_G: Ugh._

_A: He says it’s fine. As long as they don’t bugger it up and twist his words around._

_G: Which they might do._

_A: His mgr made it quite clear that they would take legal action if they slandered P._

_G: Good. People need more role models like him._

_A: Kids are a huge part of his fanbase._

_G: As well they should be._

_A: He’s also popular with middle-aged housewives._

_G: LOL, stop it!_

_A: Well, he is._

_G: Cougars._

_A: LOL._

_A: Any thoughts on lunch tomorrow?_

_G: I think we should definitely have lunch._

_A: Funny. Any thoughts on what to have for lunch tomorrow?_

_G: Tacos._

_A: Really?_

_G: You don’t like tacos?_

_A: I like tacos. I just wasn’t expecting that to be your answer._

_G: I’m full of surprises._

_A: Yes, you are. Where for tacos?_

_G: El Camino. They’re good and the location is good._

_A: 12:30._

_G: Yes. Need to go to bed now. Well, to sleep. I’m already in bed._

_A: I’m on my way there myself. Probably just have a lie-in and watch telly for a bit, though._

_G: Sounds nice._

That would be nice, snuggling with her in the nice big bed instead of on the narrow sofa, watching TV together.

Or _not_ watching TV…

Stop it.

_A: Get some rest. I hope you took something._

_G: Yes, Mum, I did. I’ll be right as rain in the morning._

_A: Good._

_G: Sweet dreams._

_A: Thank you. You, too._

Maybe I’ll take her someplace nice tomorrow night. And quiet. A nice restaurant, maybe. A walk in the park.

Something quiet without a huge crowd of people, someplace where I’ll be able to _be_ with her the way she likes me to be with her.

The way _I_ like to be with her.

I lay down in bed. I’m a lot more tired than I thought. I flip through the channels, and find myself watching that cooking competition show that was on at Guinevere’s last Saturday when I picked her up to go to the dinner.

It’s actually pretty good. You have to admire someone who can take fish and make it into a dessert.

What on earth is happening to me?

Either I’m losing my bloody mind, or… it’s something else.

Something I can’t admit, not even in the deepest corners of my mind.


	42. Day 41

_G: Sefa cut her finger & probably needs stitches. She's gone to hospital, so I'm alone. Can't do lunch. :( Come over for supper?_

I frown at her text. I'll just go grab some soup alone, then. But supper with her? Definitely yes.

_A: Finally going to cook for me?_

_G: Perhaps._

_A: You know that even if it's McDonald's it's yes._

_G: I know. And yes, I'll be cooking._

_A: Any specific time, or just after work?_

_G: You don't have to rush over. 6ish is fine._

_A: Okay. I'll go home and change clothes first. How did Sefa cut herself?_

_G: She was opening a box and the blade slipped._

_A: Hope it's not too bad._

_G: Me, too. I'll tell her you asked about her._

xXx

The afternoon crawled, as is to be expected. I bail at 4:54, run home, throw on some jeans and a t-shirt, and head back out.

I wonder what she's going to cook. She mentioned Pad Thai all the way back on day four, but I doubt she remembers that. She's probably eaten those rice noodles already.

I am hungry. I'm sure whatever she has in store for me is going to be excellent.

She buzzes me in, and I go up and let myself in.

"Hey," I say, kicking my flip-flops off by the door.

"I knew you'd be early," she smiles at me from the kitchen.

"Sorry. Hungry," I say, kissing her hello. I linger a bit longer than I should. I didn't see her yesterday. The last time I saw her, she was tipsy and rather silly and I was tucking her into her bed while she was trying to convince me to join her.

"That's good. Because it's grown," she tells me.

"What's grown?"

"The Pad Thai. I keep adding things to it and it keeps getting bigger."

"That is generally what happens when you add things to other things," I chuckle.

She shoves me. "Go. You're in my way."

I hover while she cooks. She keeps shooing me into the living room, suggesting I find something to watch on telly. I'd rather watch her.

She knows what she's doing. I like that. Her kitchen is small, and she moves around it with grace and efficiency, occasionally glancing over her shoulder at me.

I stay out of her way, but I stay near. Hovering. Just to be near.

xXx

Dinner is very good. I tell her it's the best Pad Thai I've ever had, and she refuses to believe me.

"Arthur, have you ever _had_ Pad Thai before tonight?" she asks me, smirking cheekily at me.

"Of course I have. I get it almost every time I go to Thai Palace."

"And you say this," she points her fork at her plate, "is better than Thai Palace?"

"Yes."

She just shakes her head at me.

"It's better because you made it for me."

She looks up suddenly, her eyes meeting mine across the table. Time seems to slow as I look into her amazing brown eyes.

"Thank you." Her voice is a whisper.

xXx

I watch her putting away the dishes, the dishtowel dangling from my hand. She's just so… perfect. Well, perfect in my eyes. No one is _actually_ perfect. She does everything with such a simple, easy grace, comfortable in her own skin. She doesn't care what other people think about her. She is just who she is.

She grabs the platter that the Pad Thai was on and opens a cupboard. She grips the plate tightly and lifts it, aiming for the top shelf.

A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips as a memory flashes through my brain. I move forward, almost as though I'm being pulled, and press softly against her back. I close my hand over hers on the platter and take it, placing it on the high shelf.

"Allow me," I murmur, my lips brushing her ear, my arms wrapping around her waist.

She melts against me and I groan softly, kissing the edge of her ear once. Twice. Moving down to her neck, inhaling her scent as I place wet kisses on her soft skin.

"Arthur," she whispers, and I loosen my grasp on her just enough for her to turn around in my arms and face me.

She gazes up at me, eyes wide and dark, beautiful full lips parted. Then she winds her hands around my neck, up into my hair, pressing against me.

My arms tighten around her of their own accord, holding her, stroking her back softly, fingers delving into her hair.

I think I'm in trouble.

"Guinevere," I manage her name and nothing more. It comes out sounding a bit helpless. I claim her lips with mine, almost desperately.

"Arthur," she says, her lips leaving mine only long enough to get the word out. "Oh, my…"

I know I'm in trouble. But I want this. Oh, do I want this.

"I…" I have a split-second of hesitation.

I want this, but can I? _Should_ I?

"Please," she gasps, kissing my neck.

That single word, that single whispered plea from the woman who never asks anything of me is my undoing.

I groan. I haven't wanted any woman like I want her. Ever. I crash my lips against hers; kissing her with the abandon I've been keeping carefully in check. Until now.

She presses closer against me, sliding her body against mine. I'm sure she can feel my arousal against her stomach. I feel like I'm going to explode.

Fuck. I'm doomed anyway; may as well enjoy it. I groan loudly, bend my knees, and hoist her into my arms. She squeaks in surprise, wrapping her legs around my waist to hold on as I stride the short distance to her bedroom.

"Oh, my God," she gasps, and her head drops back while my lips explore her slender neck.

"I want you so much, Guinevere," I whisper against the soft skin of her neck.

"You do?" she gasps, sounding slightly surprised.

"Yes," I say, turning and sitting down on her bed with her in my lap. "Oh, God, yes." I'm losing the capacity for speech.

"Oh," she gasps, going limp in my arms, her head against mine as my hands unbutton her shirt, my lips chasing them as her skin comes into view.

When the last button is freed, she lets go of my neck to pull her shirt off, dropping it to the floor behind her.

"Your shirt," she mutters, pulling it out from where it's tucked into my trousers, sliding her hands up underneath, her palms on my stomach, my chest. Her touch makes me inhale sharply, the sensation of her hands on my skin almost too much to bear. It burns in the best way possible, and I need more of it. I lean back and yank my shirt off, leaving it inside-out in my haste, and it joins hers on the floor.

Her hands rove my chest, her lips traveling down my neck. Then she backs away and stands, opening her jeans, her lower lip caught tantalizingly beneath her upper teeth.

I watch, transfixed, as she sashays out of her jeans, kicking them aside. She's inches away from me and she's wearing nothing but her knickers.

"Now you," she says softly, reaching down for the fly of my jeans. I fall back on the bed with a groan as she tugs them off of me.

I lift up on my elbows and take another moment to watch her, the black lace of her underthings standing out against her caramel skin, glowing in the soft light of her bedside lamp.

She's Eve, she's a drug, she's a goddess, and she's a siren singing me to my doom. I go willingly. With gleeful abandon, even.

"You are so beautiful," I whisper. I want to just look at her forever. But I also want to rip what's left of her clothes off of her and dive into her until I can't see straight.

"So are you," she says, sliding over me on the bed. My hands make a beeline for the clasp of her bra, unhooking it as soon as I can reach it. She slides her arms out of the shoulder straps and flings it backwards over her head.

"Fuck," I whisper, my hands drawn to her perfect breasts like moths to flame. I remember the feel of them, obviously; I've been itching to touch them again for nearly a week. But now, without any barriers… wow.

My thumbs brush her already-hard nipples, and she moans, arching her back a moment before dropping down over me to kiss me again. She's straddling me, and I can feel the moist heat of her against the lower part of my stomach.

I let her plunder my mouth, my tongue dancing with hers, and I slide my hands down to the waist of her panties. I tear my lips away to look.

They're very pretty, and I realize that they match her bra. I run my finger along the edge. "Did you… wear these on purpose… for me?" I ask, puzzled. Surely she couldn't have been planning…

"A girl can hope, right?" she asks, smiling at me as she moves slightly, helping me remove them.

I chuckle in surprise at her and pull my own pants off, kicking them off my foot. I don't even know where they land.

She returns to me and I roll us so I am on top, turning so we're no longer sideways on her bed, shoving the coverlet down out of the way, knocking decorative pillows to the floor.

Then I sit back slightly and take in the view. It's… better than I could have ever dreamed.

"Oh, God, Guinevere," I groan softly, dropping back over her, kissing her neck, working my way to her breasts.

She moans as my lips find a waiting nipple, already stiff with arousal and anticipation. I slide my tongue around it while my hand busies itself with her other breast for a short time before it has other ideas.

I glide my hand down her torso, fingers skimming her skin, which is still unbelievably soft and smooth. Her stomach is flat and smooth, but there's still a softness to it that is rather nice.

I drag my fingers down, tracing her belly button a moment. She giggles a little when I do this, but when I move my hand and trail my fingers up her inner thigh, the giggles turn into a gasp.

She moves her legs, parting them slightly for me. I kiss my way back to her neck, licking the hollow at the base of her throat before dragging the tip of my tongue up her neck, following the tendon there.

At the same time, I touch her, softly at first, feeling her moist coarse curls beneath my fingertips. She gasps again and further parts her legs, inviting me in. I slide a single finger between her folds and she moans, her hand tightening in my hair, pulling a little.

I think I moan, too. She's so wet and so ready, and I nearly lose control of myself.

"God, Guinevere," I mutter against her skin, moving my body closer, half-lying on her now.

"Oh, Arthur…" she sighs, squirming a little. Her fingers feel so good in my hair and on my back, my shoulder, my chest, wherever she happens to be touching me. It's too much and not enough.

I move my fingers around, circling, stroking, and move my lips back down to her breast. I want more.

I slide a finger inside and groan against her breast. If she feels this good just on my finger…

Out of nowhere, a thought occurs to me. I wasn't _really_ planning this. I don't have any protection with me.

"Guinevere," I say, my lips moving from her breasts but never leaving her skin, "do you have…?"

"I might… but if you're clean… I'm on the pill…" she gasps

"I'm clean, I promise," I murmur. I may have been a bit of a man-whore in the past, but I knew enough to be safe.

I slide my finger in and out a few times, and she moans and flexes her hips into my hand.

"I am, too," she says hoarsely, taking the edge of my ear between her teeth, slicking her sweet little tongue along the outside of it, then – oh, no – into it. I groan and tighten my arms around her. My hand stills as she renders me completely helpless. Then she sucks my earlobe into her mouth and bites it _just_ hard enough.

"Oh," I grunt, overcome. My hips move on reflex alone, pressing my erection into her hip, looking for contact. Looking for release. My head drops onto her shoulder, and my hand moves from between her thighs to clutch at her waist. I shift my body, settling between her legs and she finally releases my ear. I kiss her deeply, almost roughly, and she whimpers slightly, her hand fisting in my hair.

I have to slow down. I didn't realize I was this desperate for her. I knew I wanted her, but this is insanity.

Slow down. Make this last.

"Arthur?" she gasps, misinterpreting my hesitation, I think. I start kissing her neck.

"Trying to… savor this… you…" I mutter, my lips skimming her skin as I tangle my fingers in her hair.

She grabs my head with one hand and my bum with the other. "Oh… savor it next time," she groans, wrapping her leg around mine now.

"Good idea," I say, pausing just a moment to look down at her, and a second later, her hand slips between us and finds me. I almost collapse over her. I think I grunt or make some other rather undignified noise, but her hand feels _so good._

She mewls as I kiss her, stroking her tongue with mine as she strokes me with long, smooth motions.

I feel her open her legs further and I shift my body as she guides me into position. I am completely putty in her hands to do with what she will.

"Arthur," she whimpers against my lips.

I plunge my hips down and forward, entering her swiftly.

Dear God.

"Oh!" she cries out, throwing her head back, clutching my shoulders. "Oh, yes…"

Oh, yes, indeed. She feels so bloody _good._ Better than anything I've ever felt before. I immediately start moving, mindless for the first few thrusts, driven by pure, naked need. Want. I think I even growl.

"Oh… God…" she moans, her voice bringing my mind back from its oblivion. She hooks her leg up on my hip and I bend down to kiss her, needing her lips on mine, the sweetness of her tongue against mine.

"You're so sweet," I gasp, sucking on her tongue, her lush lower lip, her neck. I can't get enough of her.

I'm losing it fast. I want—no, I _need_ her to finish before I do. I don't know why I feel this need, but I do.

"Mmm…" she whimpers, running her hands over my chest and writhing deliciously beneath me. My hand finds her breast, my lips are back on hers, and I am so close to the edge.

"Oh, God… Ah…"

I think she's close.

"Mmm… Ahhhhrthur!" she exclaims, turning her moan into my name as she comes, her body tightening around me, her nails digging into my arms, her head thrown back.

"Shit." The whispered curse drops from my lips unchecked. She's just so beautiful like this, in the moment of mindless pleasure, that I can hardly stand it.

I let go. I thrust two more times and find my release, surging into her. It feels like I'm pouring my whole body into hers, flooding her.

"Guinevere," I grunt her name roughly, gathering her to me as I ride out my wave. I bury my face in her neck, clinging to her, letting her scent wash over me. She wraps her arms around me and heaves the most contented-sounding sigh I've ever heard. I can _hear_ her smile in this sigh.

I come back to earth a few seconds later, wrapped in her arms, my head on her shoulder.

"Wow," she says finally. I chuckle and turn my head, kissing her neck.

"Mmm-hmm," I agree.

I roll off of her and immediately pull her to me, holding her close to my side.

"That _was_ worth the wait," she says.

"I'm glad you think so," I say.

"You don't agree?"

"Mmm, it was more than worth the wait," I say. "It exceeded expectations in every way." I lean down and kiss her.

"Indeed," she agrees, tracing small circles on my chest while my hands idly stroke her skin. "Um, I need to go… take care of…"

"Oh," I say, letting her out of my arms. One of the problems of not using a condom: it's a little messy. She grabs my shirt off of the floor and puts it on. "You're being very cliché," I say, laughing.

"I don't care. It was right there," she says. "And I'm not going to walk around starkers, much as you might enjoy that."

"It does look good," I say, watching her walk out of the room to go to the bathroom.

While she's gone, I grab a tissue and tidy myself up a bit as well. I settle into her bed, pulling the blankets up to my waist. I don't think I've ever really looked around her room. Usually I'm busy telling myself that her bed _isn't right there._

But since that's no longer an issue, I survey my surroundings. It's pretty simple. Clean. Her bed is quite comfortable (though mine is bigger; I have a king-size bed). There's a small collection of pillows on the floor where I unceremoniously shoved them earlier. I glance down and count five.

That's another thing I don't get. All those extra pillows just need to be removed for the bed to be used in one of the two basic manners for which it is intended. It's like those people that have a quilted fabric thing covering their toaster. We all know what's under there. It doesn't need decoration.

Apart from the superfluous pillows, I like her room. Oh, and the lavender coverlet wouldn't be my choice, but it's soft and cozy.

She returns, braiding her hair. I frown.

"It'll become a tangled mess otherwise," she says. She stops when she sees I've made myself comfortable. "Does this mean you're staying?" she asks softly.

"I'd like to, if you want me to."

She smiles and slides into the bed beside me, cuddling to my side again. "Of course I want you to. Why do you think I keep asking you to come with me to bed?"

"Because one time you were sleeping and the other time you were tipsy?" I ask. She pokes me in the ribs, and I jump.

"Well, that may have been why I asked _out loud,_ " she admits. She hugs my waist and leans her head up to kiss my jaw. "I want you to stay. I was really hoping you would."

"Is that why you took my shirt? So I couldn't get dressed and sneak away while you were in the loo?"

"No, of course not. Thanks for the tip, though…" she giggles at me.

"I don't even know where my pants are, to be honest," I say, and she laughs.

We lie quietly together. I slide my hands over her body, disappointed that she left my t-shirt on. So I slide one hand down and slip it under the offending garment, sliding it up on her skin.

"Arthur…"

"I want to feel your skin," I say, kissing the top of her head. "It's so soft and nice."

"Oh," she says. Then she sits up suddenly and whips the shirt off. She pulls the blanket higher when she lies back down, but my hand is under the blanket, so I don't mind. "I don't want to get cold."

"I'll keep you warm," I say, holding her closer.

"I bet you will," she says.

How did I keep my distance for this long? She really is irresistible in every way.

xXx

I think we doze for a bit, because the next thing I know, something has startled me awake. Was it my mobile? Hers? A noise outside? I don't know. I glance at the clock on her bedside table and it's well after 11.

"What was that?" Guinevere asks, blinking awake.

"What was what?"

"That sound. Something woke me up."

"I don't know. Something woke me up, too."

She's all warm and soft, and my hand seems to have made itself quite comfortable on her backside. I squeeze, and she giggles.

"What time is it?" She lifts her head and looks. "Oh." She starts to lie back down but pauses, kissing me first.

She lingers, shifting so she is slightly over me. I deepen the kiss. She moans softly into my mouth, then gently withdraws just far enough so she can see me.

"One more?" she asks, her eyes twinkling at me in the dim light.

"Only one?" What the hell, why not? In for a penny; in for a pound.

She laughs, dropping her head on my shoulder.

"You know," I say, my voice low, "I recall saying something about savoring you." I kiss her. "You said, and I quote: 'Savor it next time.'"

"Oh, God…" she groans. I flip us over so that I am above her again. She bites her lower lip and looks up at me.

"Actually, my name is Arthur," I say, grinning at her. She laughs, and I make a beeline for her neck while her head is thrown back.

"Oh!" she gasps.

I find her favorite spot and place a lingering, wet kiss there, then another, sucking at her skin just enough to make her moan. My hand skims her side, down to her hip and back up to her breast, ghosting my palm across her nipple. She arches against my hand, craving more contact.

I give a gentle squeeze and move off of her, dragging the blankets back with me.

"Arthur?"

"I want to see you," I say softly. "I didn't get a chance to see you before."

She closes her eyes and smiles, breathing a gentle sigh of contentment.

She is just…

"Perfect," I whisper, trailing my finger down from her throat, between her breasts to her belly, stopping at her belly button.

"Am not," she mutters.

Oh, darling, trust me. I am a connoisseur.

A bit remorseful about it now, but even so.

"Your opinion," I say softly, both hands tracing her hips, down her thighs. She has really nice legs. Slender without being skinny, strong without being overly muscular.

And they felt really good wrapped around me.

My eyes rove her body, lingering on the hollows of her throat and collarbones, following them out to the smooth curves of her shoulders. I lean down and kiss one shoulder.

Her breasts, firm and smooth and lovely. There is a small mole between them. I lean down and kiss it.

"They could be bigger," she says, smiling.

"Guinevere, 95% of women think their breasts could be bigger," I say, kissing one, then the other. "You do not need to be one of them."

She chuckles a little. I lean back and close a hand over each breast. "See? They're the right size," I say, flexing my fingers lightly. "Nothing is wasted."

"Stop…" She laughs now, and I just want to kiss those laughing lips. So I do.

"I thought you liked my laugh," she says.

"I do. It often makes me want to kiss you," I explain, kissing her again.

I take my time, reveling in the softness and sweetness of her lips, stroking her tongue with mine while my hands caress her skin.

I kiss down one side of her neck, hitting that spot she likes for a bit, then down, closing my lips over her breast, sliding my tongue over her nipple, suckling, even biting gently. Her hand slides into my hair while I linger, and I hear soft sounds escaping from her throat from time to time. She likes this. I find I'm quite enjoying this, too.

I kiss my way down further, tongue flicking at the underside of her breast before I pepper soft kisses on her stomach. I dip my tongue into her belly button and she giggles.

I keep moving, down further but moving to the side, to trail kisses down her thigh. I lift her leg and kiss the tender inside of her knee before skimming my lips down her smooth, firm calf.

I kiss her ankle just to be cheeky, and she giggles again. I kiss the delicate toes on each foot in turn, then start making my way back up.

I kiss her other knee, then start moving up her thigh again, this time intent on taking a slight detour.

As I work my way up her thigh, I slow down, drawing it out, moving my kisses closer together as I work my way up her inner thigh. She squirms wonderfully.

Her skin is so unbelievable. I'm going to need to be touching her all the time after this, now that I've allowed myself to fully experience how wonderful she is in every way.

My addiction to her has just become more serious.

My lips graze the skin at the very top of her inner thigh, then, smirking against her, I shift, moving up to kiss her hip.

"Oh! Tease…" she gasps, pulling my hair.

I chuckle and move my lips back to their original target. Her scent is intoxicating, which makes sense because I feel a little drunk on her right now.

I settle between her thighs and slide my tongue between her waiting folds.

She's so wet and ready and she tastes so good that I nearly come. She gasps, and I groan, circling my tongue a few times before running it along the length of her once more.

Admittedly, this is not something I've often done. In the past I've been primarily about my own pleasure, but with Guinevere, I want to give her as much pleasure as I can; I want her to feel like she is the most beautiful and desirable woman in the world.

Because to me, she is.

"Mmm." She flexes her hips against my mouth, and I slide my tongue down, thrusting it inside, moving it in and out a few times. I think I can taste the remnants of our previous encounter, but I really don't care. She's writhing and moaning, obviously enjoying what I'm doing to her. That's all I care about right now.

I slide my tongue up, slowly and softly circling her swollen nub, lavishing attention on it, kissing, flicking my tongue. Then I move one hand down from where it is grasping her thigh to slip a single finger inside her while I lick and suck at her.

"Oh God, Arthur…" she cries out, encouraging me. I move my finger in and out, my tongue still alternating between circles and flicks, and moments later, she explodes around me.

I almost join her. My cock is so hard it's almost painful, almost like it didn't get its own release just hours before.

I still my tongue and my finger, moving my face to kiss her inner thigh, resting my head there a moment, feeling the contractions of her inner walls around my finger slow down, get further apart as she comes down from her climax.

I slide my finger out and continue my way back up the other side of her body, kissing her stomach, the side of her breast.

"Arthur…" she sighs, dropping her hand onto my shoulder.  
"I'm not done with you yet," I mutter against her breast before flicking her nipple with my tongue before sucking it gently into my mouth.

"Oh, shit…" she sighs, and I chuckle against her, pressing my erection against her thigh as I suckle and kiss her breast.

Her hand comes up to my head, sliding her fingers through my hair a moment before moving down, lower, over my chest and stomach, searching for me.

She closes her warm, strong hand over my shaft and I groan.


	43. Day 42

"Oh, God, Guinevere," I say, my voice hoarse. Her hand feels too good on me, and I need her to stop. And I need her to _not_ stop.

I somehow summon the will to kiss my way higher, looking for her favorite spot on _this_ side of her neck now, kissing and sucking…

"Ohh…"

Found it.

My victory is short-lived, though, because her hand is still working on me. I feel her thumb slide across the moisture collecting on the tip and it makes a shudder run through my body. I gently place my hand over hers, moving it from my cock to my chest before I explode.

"Sorry," she whispers.

"Don't be," I say, "just too close…"

"Oh," she answers, then, "Oh!" as the realization sinks in.

I have to laugh a little, and I kiss her lips, willing myself to go slow despite my need. This isn't about me. I take my time, exploring the soft dark corners of her mouth with my tongue, tasting. Savoring.

I move between her willing thighs and she wraps her arms around my shoulders, holding me close. I leave her lips and move to her ear, nibbling, turning the tables a bit.

"Mmm," she hums contentedly, sliding her smooth thighs against my hips.

God. I think I've savored enough. I drop my hips and find her entrance, sliding easily inside. It's almost as if I belong here, inside her, wrapped in her embrace.

"Oh…" I groan, pressing my face into her neck. She tightens her arms around me, keeping me close.

"Stay here," she whispers, "stay by me."

"Okay," I breathe, starting to move, still determined to take my time. I move in long, languid strokes while I kiss her ear, her neck, her lips, clinging to her as she clings to me.

We move together, her legs wrapping fully around my waist now, and she silently urges me faster, meeting me thrust for thrust as we climb together, striving towards the same goal.

"Arthur," she whimpers my name once, digs her fingers into my shoulders, and cries out again, wordlessly, and I feel her climax around me.

I groan and follow immediately, thrusting deep and stilling within her, holding her whole body as close as I possibly can, my head against her neck, nose buried in her hair, my eyes closed tight.

Savor this. Remember this moment.

She trails her fingers over my skin, leaving it tingling before she rakes one hand lightly through my hair. I'm still lying on top of her, and she doesn't seem to mind. I'm going to stay here as long as I can.

I sigh and shift, withdrawing from her but still lying on top of her. Her fingers still toy with my hair. I like how her fingers feel in my hair. It's very soothing.

"Arthur," she says at length.

I move off of her, knowing what she was about to say. I probably outweigh her by at least 65 pounds. "Sorry," I say, smiling at her, leaning on my elbow beside her.

"It's all right," she says. "I was comfortable, but, well, you _were_ getting a little heavy."

"I know," I say. "I just wanted—"

"I know," she answers, stroking my cheek. I lean down and kiss her once before she scuttles away to the loo again with a whispered, "I'll be right back."

I glance at the clock on her nightstand. It's 12:19 a.m. Long night. Amazing night.

I can feel fingers of guilt starting to creep up on me and I brush them away. Not tonight. She's like a balm on my heart. She soothes my soul, if I even have one anymore. She makes me feel like I do.

I clean myself up some, straighten the tangled mess of blankets, and settle back into her bed. My eyes drift closed for a few seconds until I hear her soft footfalls on the carpet. They're barely audible, but I am so attuned to her that I hear them.

She didn't bother to put anything on this time, so I am glad I opened my eyes. She slips into bed next to me, then reaches across me (which is quite enjoyable) to switch off the small lamp on her bedside table.

We're both exhausted now, and it's no wonder. I pull her into my arms and she curls against me. It feels so nice, so right, so perfect.

She sighs, and I feel her breath against my neck.

"You are _so_ much better than my vibrator," she says quietly.

I'm so shocked by her admission that I burst out laughing.

"I guess I said that out loud, huh?" she mutters sleepily, but she's laughing, too.

Well, I _have_ been doing that myself; I'd be a fool to think she wasn't doing the same thing from time to time. A person has to cope somehow.

"Yes, you did. Funniest thing I've heard in a while. And I'm happy you feel that way," I say.

She snuggles against me and kisses my neck.

"You're also much more satisfying and amazing than my hand."

Now she laughs. "Certainly hope so," she says, yawning.

"Goodnight, Guinevere." I kiss her forehead.

She lifts her head and kisses me. "Sleep w—"

I place my finger gently on her lips, stopping her words. "I don't think I need you to tell me tonight. You're here with me. That'll do it," I say softly.

She kisses my finger and I withdraw it. "Goodnight, Arthur," she says, settling her head on my shoulder, content to sleep in the circle of my arms.

xXx

I blink awake. Where am I? Oh, yes, I'm in Guinevere's bed. She's warm and soft in my arms, facing away from me now. No wonder I feel so content. But why am I awake? Need to pee. Also thirsty. And a little hungry, actually.

I gently unwind myself from around her and get out of bed. She whimpers a soft protest, but I tuck the blankets back around her and she settles back in. Good; I don't want to disturb her.

I pad out to the bathroom, pee, and then head to the kitchen. Water. I could use some water. I find a glass, pour myself some from the tap, and guzzle it like I'm dying of thirst. Then I refill the glass and drink more, but slower this time.

"Arthur?" Her voice calls softly from the other side of the small apartment.

"In the kitchen," I call back. There's a bunch of bananas on the counter, so I take one and peel the skin halfway back.

I hear a flush and she appears a moment later, in a purple dressing gown. "I was afraid you'd gone…" Her words are cut off abruptly by surprised laughter as she surveys the scene in front of her.

I realize then that I must be a sight.

"What, you've never seen a naked man eating a banana in your kitchen before?" I ask.

"No," she laughs, walking forward. "Apparently you were not expecting to be discovered."

"Not really," I say. I angle the banana towards her. "Bite?"

She reaches up, breaks off a hunk instead of biting it, and pops it into her mouth. "Good," she says. Then she takes my water glass and drinks while I throw away the peel.

"I wouldn't sneak off in the middle of the night, Guinevere," I say, reaching for the ends of her robe sash and pulling her over to me. She reaches up and straightens my hair some.

"You did say you would stay," she says, wrapping her arms around me now and resting her head on my chest. "But when one wakes up in the middle of the night, one doesn't always think clearly."

"I would never do that to you," I say in a low voice.

No, you'll abandon her in a completely different and much more permanent way.

Shut it.

I squeeze my eyes closed for a second, willing that nagging voice away. Then I hook my finger under her chin and lift her face to mine as I lean down to kiss her.

It's after three in the morning, we're in the kitchen, and our mouths taste like sleep and banana.

Still, I want her. I need her right now. I deepen the kiss, slipping my tongue between her lips. She squeaks in surprise, but opens willingly and hungrily. My hands start pulling at her robe.

"Arthur," she gasps. I don't know if it's passion or protest, but I've got one hand inside her robe and the other is untying her belt. Her fingers tighten in my hair. Passion. Definitely.

I get her dressing gown open and delve my hands inside, touching her skin everywhere I can while slowly moving us over to the one wall at the end of her narrow kitchen.

I feel her hand grasp me softly, and my knees buckle. I keep myself upright, kissing her with abandon, my hand on her breast, caressing, my thumb tracing her nipple, feeling how it reacts to my touch.

"Hang on," I grunt. I bend down and lift her into my arms, pulling her legs around me. I brace her against the wall, her robe hanging open on her shoulders.

I kiss her neck, my hands gripping her backside, then move down to kiss her breasts, hoisting her a little higher so I can reach them.

She moans, pressing her breasts forward into my mouth as I suck and lick at her nipples until I can't hold her this high anymore and have to let her slide back down.

I feel her wetness slick against my stomach and it makes me groan, wishing I had a third hand with which to touch her. Instead my lips dive for her neck again.

"Oh…" she gasps, reaching for me again, pulling me into position.

She sinks down over me, her arms coming up to hold my neck. "Arthur," she whispers, kissing me, hanging on as I gather my wits and start thrusting into her, using the wall to support her.

"Yes…" she gasps, dropping her head back against the wall. I take this opportunity to place wet, sucking kisses on her neck, nearly biting her in my ardor. I groan into her neck. It feels so good. _She_ feels so bloody _good._

"Oh, God…" she moans, holding my neck tighter, spurring me on, and I drive a little harder.

I'm unraveling fast here, but luckily she's right with me, her lovely lips parted, eyes closed.

"Guinevere," I say, and she opens her eyes. I hold her gaze and she stays with me, staring boldly back into my eyes. We watch each other, moving almost frantically, and she shouts out, climaxing. She loses her grip on my neck a moment, limp, but she recovers quickly enough to hang on while I dive over the edge after her.

I can barely keep my feet under me as my release surges through me, and I groan loudly, pinning her to the wall, my hands digging into her bum.

"Oh, fuck…" I sigh, leaning my head against hers. She giggles.

We stand there a moment longer, not talking, just me holding her against the wall, forehead to forehead, while our breathing returns to normal.

"So that's three," she mutters, tilting her chin to kiss my lips.

"What? You're keeping count?" I ask, gently withdrawing myself from her and setting her feet on the floor again.

"Don't you remember? The day after the joust, when I came over and helped you make lunch. You told me that the old you would have had me 'at least six different ways by now,'" she says, closing her robe up again. She looks up at me, grins, and then kisses me again.

I _did_ say that. And I was being conservative when I said "six."

"Is that a challenge?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at her.

"I don't know, but it's been quite the distracting thought for several weeks now," she laughs, kissing me a third time. Then she takes my hand and leads me back through the living room. She shoves me gently towards the bedroom and heads to the bathroom again.

Hmm. She must like to tidy up after each time. I suppose there is a need for that.

I slip back into her bed, pressing my face into her pillow. This is nice. I could really get used to this.

 _Don't_ , that little voice that I now truly hate hisses in the back of my brain. _Don't get used to it. You can't have this forever._

I just inhale the scent from her pillow again, willing that voice to shut the fuck up and leave me alone. Just for this weekend. Just let me have this weekend.

She returns and totally catches me nuzzling her pillow. "Miss me that much?" she asks.

"Yes," I answer, quite seriously. "Come here." I hold my arms out and she shucks her robe, climbing back in.

"Sleep," she instructs sternly, curling on her side, facing me again.

"Yes, Mum," I say, wrapping my arms around her again.

"Okay, ew," she giggles. "Not appropriate here."

I laugh. "Go to sleep."

" _You_ go to sleep."

"I can't, because someone is giggling too much."

"Shut it," she says. Then more giggles erupt. "Oh, too tired…"

I lean down and kiss her forehead. She sighs and the giggles stop.

xXx

I don't wake until nearly 10. I guess kitchen interludes at three a.m. can take a lot out of a person.

I can hear her bustling around in the kitchen, humming to herself. Sounds like she has a decent singing voice. Not surprising, though; she's good at everything.

Well, except for bowling.

I sit up and look out the window. It's raining again. But this is Camelot and this is spring. It's going to rain.

Perfect day to stay in.

And it sounds like she's making breakfast. My stomach hopes she is.

I get out of bed and look around. I don't see my shirt; she must have it. Where are my pants? Ah. Here they are, on the edge of a small chair in the corner. I pull on my underpants, just black boxer briefs, and contemplate my jeans.

Eh. I'll go like this. Not like I have to be modest anymore.

I stroll out, use the loo, and make my way to the kitchen. Yes, she is wearing my t-shirt. And she's making pancakes and sausages.

I smile, remembering something else from that Sunday after the joust, when she told me that she had pancakes for dinner on Saturday just because she likes them.

I wrap my arms around her waist and kiss her neck. "Good morning," I say, kissing it again.

"Mmm, good morning. I hope you like pancakes," she says.

"I know _you_ do," I say. And after last night, I also know that she's pretty fond of sausages. Well, one sausage in particular.

She laughs. "You remembered!"

"How could I forget that?" I say, releasing her to lean against the counter while she cooks. "Never heard of pancakes as a cure for migraines before."

"Yes, well, we all have our little idiosyncrasies," she says.

Don't I know it.

"I hope you're hungry. It's so late, this is brunch, so if there's anything else you'd like, speak up."

"I can think of one thing," I say softly.

She looks at me, then, to my surprise, she laughs. "Wow, you really just go from zero to 60 in no time flat, don't you?"

Interesting choice of numbers. Right now 60 is the last place I want to be.

Focus. Worry about that later.

I shrug. "I may be regretting having waited so long," I admit, a little sheepish. I do regret it, and I don't. I do regret it for obvious reasons. She's spectacular. But if I had done it sooner, when I _really_ wanted to (like Day Four), it would have been the only thing I wanted to do for the rest of our time together, thus making it… less… special.

I also don't regret it because I've really gotten to know her as a person, have gotten to know how amazing and lovely she is, both inside and out, which… is just going to make it all the more difficult to end things in less than three weeks.

Bugger. I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't.

So confused.

"Arthur?"

Busted again.

"Sorry. Just… sorting some things out in my head," I say, raking my hand through my hair, which I'm sure is sticking up nine different ways.

"Anything I can do to help?" she asks, flipping the pancakes on the griddle expertly. They don't collapse on themselves and fold in half like they did the few times I've tried it.

"Come here?" I ask, holding out my hand. She smiles, sets the spatula down, and steps into my embrace, resting her head on my chest, her arms around my waist. I sigh, holding her against me, soaking in her goodness and affection like the greedy sponge that I am.

I _am_ greedy for her. In every way. It's dangerous and it's unfair to both of us (mainly her), but I can't help it. And I don't want to anymore.

I lean down and kiss the top of her head. Her hair is still braided and I wish it wasn't, but I understand her wanting to keep it out of the way, so I resist my urge to pull the elastic from the end and unwind her hair.

Perhaps later.

"I need to flip the pancakes, Arthur," she finally says.

"Oh, right," I say, releasing her. She looks me up and down. "Nice outfit."

"Well, _someone_ keeps stealing my clothes, so you get to deal with me in my pants," I say. I sit at the table nearby, watching her cook.

"Tea?" she asks, removing the pancakes to a plate in the oven.

"If you have some ready. Don't go to any trouble," I say.

"I've got the kettle right here, and it's still hot," she says, pointing to her own cup on the counter.

"Okay," I say. "Thanks."

I watch her as she fixes my tea. My t-shirt hangs almost halfway down her thighs, giving me a very nice view indeed.

"How do you take it?" she asks, holding up my cup.

"Just like that, thanks," I say, taking it from her. She starts making more pancakes. "Um, how many of those are you going to make, exactly?" I ask. There was already more than enough for the two of us on that plate in the oven.

"Oh, I always make a lot. Then I freeze the extra and when I want pancakes I just pop them in the toaster."

"Ah," I say. That's actually kind of clever.

"They're best when they're fresh, though," she says, turning around again. "What?"

I must have been staring. "You have really good legs. I've never really gotten the opportunity to appreciate them before now. They've always been covered."

"Oh." She looks down at them. "Thank you," she says, smiling.

A few minutes later, she's setting a plate with pancakes straight from the griddle in front of me.

"I can wait for you," I say.

"I'll be joining you in ten seconds," she says, loading up a second plate. She also brings a covered dish with sausages and bacon. "I can make you some eggs if you want some," she offers.

"No, this is perfect, thanks," I say.

"Maybe tomorrow," she says absently.

Tomorrow? Is she planning on having me stay over again? That's what _I_ was planning, but I wasn't sure. Do I ask?

"I mean, if you want to stay over again…" she blurts, realizing what she's just said.

"I was kind of thinking I'd like to stay. If you want me to, that is," I say. I feel like we've had this conversation before.

"Well, the weather _is_ ghastly," she says, pointing towards the window.

"Indeed. I shouldn't be going out in that. Could catch my death. Especially since I don't have a shirt or anything."

"Exactly," she agrees, smirking. I'm sure she knows I will eventually need that back.

Brunch is very good, and I help her clean up the dishes and the kitchen, watching with amusement as she tucks stacks of three pancakes each into little zip-top bags.

There's an odd one, but instead of just making a bag of four, she tears it in half, feeds me half of it before I can protest that I'm full (which I am), and eats the other half herself.

"I'm just going to shower quick, all right?" she asks, kissing me again.

"Okay," I say, following right behind her to the bathroom.

She turns and looks at me, a bemused look on her face. "Arthur, what…?"

"If you think you're showering alone, you'd better think again, darling."

xXx

"Arthur, what are you doing?" she asks.

"You keep asking me that question when it's quite obvious what I'm doing," I say. I've just climbed back into her bed, remote control in my hand, not a stitch of clothing on my body. "I'm making myself comfortable and hoping you'll join me for a little snuggle in front of the telly." I pat the bed beside me.

"So, you're just going to hang about naked all day?" she asks. She's still wrapped in a towel, her hair in damp ringlets kissing her bare shoulders.

She let me un-braid her hair before we showered. But she wouldn't let me wash her hair. Told me that I was a little too enthusiastic and she'd likely wind up with a knotted mess.

She did let me do quite a few other things to her in the shower, though, so I guess I can live with not getting to wash her hair.

"Sounds good to me," I say. "I'm all clean now, so I don't much fancy putting yesterday's underpants back on, and I'm not a huge fan of going about _sans_ pants. And I don't want to go home or anywhere else, for that matter. So unless you have something I can wear that not only fits but isn't all… girly… I guess we'll be having Naked Day."

Now she laughs. "Naked Day? _We?_ You think I'm going to participate in your depraved little made-up holiday?"

"No one likes to celebrate alone, Guinevere," I say, running my palm back and forth over the spot beside me on the bed that I'd patted, trying to entice her over.

She stares at me a moment, as if she's trying to decide what to do. I raise my eyebrows at her. _Come on…_

Finally, she huffs, and it turns into a laugh. "You are just ridiculous. Let me at least do something about my hair, then, if I'm going to be living a life of debauchery today."

She marches back out to the bathroom. If I have one complaint about her cozy little flat, it's that she only has the one bathroom, and it's out _there._ I have my own private bath off my bedroom and another out in the living area, and I quite like it that way.

She returns a few minutes later with her hair braided again, wearing her dressing gown. She walks over, gives me a pursed-lipped stare (which has the complete opposite effect of what she's intending, I'm sure), shucks her robe, and finally joins me in her bed.

"See, now, was that so hard?" I purr in her ear, kissing her cheek.

"Shut it," she says, but now she's just trying not to laugh.

"I even put on food for you," I say, pointing at the screen. That competition show is on. It's on a lot, I've discovered.

"You don't have to," she says.

"Actually, I kind of like this one. Maybe because they kind of make it like a sport, who knows?" I set the remote down and settle in. Cozy.

We watch the program, our conversation mainly limited to discussing what we're watching. Guinevere explains some things that I don't understand, like what the hell bonito broth is (apparently a bonito is a kind of fish). I make retching noises at one of the dishes that looks just awful and comment that I'm glad I'm not one of the judges. She playfully slaps my chest, but then admits she feels the same way.

"I have to admit, this is kind of nice," she says after a while, running her fingertips over my chest.

"Only kind of?" I ask, looking down at her.

"Okay, it's really nice," she admits. "I… like how your hands feel on my skin," she adds quietly.

I slide my hand down her side. "That's good, because I like how your skin feels under my hands," I answer. I take my other hand and lift her chin so I can kiss her.

We kiss softly for a bit, touching and caressing, but nothing more. We both seem content with just this right now. Her lips are amazing. I've always thought so, but now I tell her.

"Yours are… really good… too," she answers, still kissing me. I don't see what's so special about mine, but I'm not going to argue. Especially not when she's kissing me.

I press my lips softly to hers, lingering a moment longer, then release her, opening my eyes. "We're going to miss who wins," I say quietly, touching my nose to hers like a small kiss.

"Do you care?" she asks.

"Kind of," I admit, and she laughs at me again.

She laughs at me a lot. But I like it.

xXx

_I'm in a pool… no, I'm surrounded by soft fur… no, a pool. Definitely a pool, filled with warm water. Perfect temperature. I'm completely relaxed and free of any care. No troubles. Father is not an issue. No curse. Just… happiness. Contentment. Bliss, almost._

_I try to move in my little pool of warm happiness, and something soft and warm caresses my skin. My chest, my stomach, my thighs. I tingle all over._

_Oh, God. This is bliss. The wet warmth caresses my cock now, sliding deliciously around it, encasing it,_ sliding _on it._

_I try to moan, but no sound comes. I try to move, to gain some footing, a handhold, something to anchor myself, but none is available. So I float, writhing a little, helpless, as the warmth cascades over my shaft again and again._

_So good. But what is it? I have to know. I reach with my hand again, down towards my groin, and my fingers make contact with…_

"Guinevere…" I moan, finally waking from the blissful torment of my dream. Her head is moving below my waist, sucking me in over and over and over…

"God… ah…"

So good…

Oh…

Mother fu…

She has to…

"Guinevere." I find my voice. "I'm going to… so if you don't want…" I gasp.

"Mmm." She slowly slides me out of her mouth and moves up to kiss my stomach. "Perhaps another time," she says. She kisses my stomach again.

She kisses her way up my torso, stopping to flick her tongue across my nipples before moving up to my neck, sliding her body decadently over mine.

"That's a hell of a way to wake up," I say with a grin, enfolding her in my embrace.

"You dozed off," she says, kissing me. "I was kind of bored." She kisses me again. "Thought I'd mess with your dreams a little." She kisses me again, longer, her tongue finding its way easily into my mouth, stopping my laughter before it begins.

"It worked," I manage, running my hands up her back. She's been messing with my dreams for months. It's nice having them messed with this way, though. _Very_ nice. "It was very strange, but very good." I lift up, trying to flip us over, but she doesn't let me.

"You just stay right there," she says. "I'm in charge here."

Dear God. I groan and fall back, acquiescing to her demands. "Be gentle with me," I say.

She bends down and takes my ear between her teeth. "I'll think about it," she whispers, flicking her tongue against my earlobe.

I am toast.

She sucks on my ear, her other hand stroking my cheek. "Stubbly," she mutters, scraping her thumb across my unshaven skin.

My hands grip her backside, sliding down under her thighs and pulling her legs up so she is straddling me.

She's moved on to my neck now, sucking at my skin. I don't even care if she's leaving marks. I move my hands up her back and my fingers brush the end of her braid.

She moves back to my lips, kissing me hungrily, our tongues tangling and sliding. I find the elastic securing her hair and ease it out, dropping it on the bed next to us.

She's going to kill me, but I'm going to do it anyway. I delve my fingers in, working her hair free until it cascades over us.

"Hey!" she protests, lifting her head.

"If you insist on staying up there, I want to feel your hair brushing my skin," I say softly, threading my fingers through her curls, still just slightly damp in places from being braided.

"You are strange," she says, angling her head at me.

My fingers slide on her scalp. "You are correct," I answer, pulling her face back down to mine, kissing her again.

I pull her hair gently and she moans into my mouth. So I pull it a little harder.

"Oh," she gasps, lifting her head briefly. "Wow…" she mutters, kissing me again, grinding her hips against me a little now, her body instinctively looking for contact with mine, for relief from the ache.

I move my hands out of her hair and feel it fall over us, tickling my face and neck. I reach down under her thigh and touch her wetness, sliding my finger along, slipping it slowly in and out of her until she moans.

"Arth…" she gasps. She moves lower, forcing me to remove my hand. Then she takes me in her hand and slides my cock along her folds a few times, touching herself with it.

I groan again, it feels so good, the warm wetness of her slipping over my tip. My arms go limp and fall to my sides. Then she sits back, positions herself over me and slowly – painfully slowly – lowers herself over me, sighing when I am fully sheathed within her.

She doesn't move for what feels like a very long time. Probably just seconds, but it feels like hours.

"Guinevere," I croak, running my hands up her thighs, reaching for her hips, trying to help.

"Mmm," she moans, taking my hands in hers and sliding them up her body to her breasts.

My mutinous hands give up their mission and take up hers, squeezing, caressing her nipples.

"Please." I'm begging now, and I don't care. If she doesn't start moving I am going to die.

She opens her eyes and smiles down at me. "Since you said please," she says. Then she rocks her hips, small motions, just enough to drive me a little more crazy. I think her own need takes over, because it doesn't take long for her to start moving more. Not faster, just bigger movements, allowing me to grab her hips and help her move.

My eyes keep closing and I keep willing them open, wanting to watch her. She feels amazing, she looks amazing, and I need her closer.

She makes a soft whimpering noise as I run my hands up her back again, pulling her shoulders towards me. She shifts without losing a beat, extending her legs back, stretching out over me.

I lift my head and take a breast into my mouth, sucking hard on her nipple, letting her support my head with her hand.

Oh, God. I'm losing it, fast. I drive my hips up, moving harder, encouraging her to catch up. I move to her other breast and lave her nipple with my tongue, trying to hang on.

But she's so good and sweet and delicious and sexy and I can't hold on.

"Oh…" I grunt, flooding my release into her, dropping my head back onto the pillow. She's still moving. It's sweet torture.

I can do this. I keep going, clinging to whatever I have left in me. She's close, I can tell; I've already learned some of the signs.

I kiss her with everything I have, my hand sliding over her breast again, flicking her nipple with my thumb. She climaxes with a husky shout, dropping her head over me, her hair falling in curled tendrils over my face and neck.

"Sorry," I whisper, wrapping my arms around her.

"What for?" she asks. "Going first? You _did_ have a head start," she says, lifting her head and flipping her hair over to one side, out of my face.

"I suppose you're right," I admit, chuckling. "Your fault, then." She laughs a little, too, causing me to slip out of her. "Whoa."

She tries to roll off of me, but I hold her there. I like the weight of her small body atop mine. We lie together, occasionally kissing, my fingers playing with her hair.

"I need to go tidy up," she says after a few minutes.

"If you must," I say, releasing her.

She rolls off of me, snatches up her hair tie from the bed and walks to the bathroom. It's a good show.

She comes back a few minutes later, hair re-done, takeaway menus in hand.

"I'm hungry. You hungry?"

"Very," I say. She settles into the bed, sitting back against the headboard, pulling the blankets up to cover. I'm still sprawled on my back, barely covered by anything. I feel like I don't have any bones.

"It's a little early," she says, glancing at the clock. It's 4:35. "But we only had brunch and by the time we order food and it arrives, it'll be after five, which is acceptable for supper."

"Not that _that_ matters very much," I say. "We're hungry. So we should eat." Why does it need to be more complicated than that? If I want to eat dinner at 3:45, I do.

"I suppose that's true. What do you want?" she asks.

"Pizza," I say. Pizza sounds like a fine idea.

"Ooh, sounds good," she says, pulling the appropriate menu. "You're going to have to violate the rules of Naked Day to meet the delivery man, though," she adds, smirking at me.

"Well, I don't _have_ to," I say, smirking back. "Might get our dinner for free then."

"Or they might ring the police," she shoots back, laughing. "What kind should we get?"

xXx

Pizza was the right choice. We also got these breadsticks they have that have cheese on the inside. I was fascinated as to how they get the cheese inside. Guinevere was not, and even explained how it was likely done.

I wound up putting my jeans on to go down to get the pizza. The boy still seemed a bit taken aback by my appearance, considering I was barefoot and shirtless and it's not exactly warm outside today. Guinevere thought it was pretty funny when I told her that the delivery boy acted like he'd never seen a shirtless man before.

"I'd say that the first ever Naked Day was a resounding success," I comment, now lying in bed again with her tucked against my side.

She laughs. "I've never eaten dinner naked before."

"Well, now, to be fair, you had a sheet wrapped around you, so it wasn't like you were on full display or anything." I trail my fingers down her arm.

"It would be too distracting for you," she says. "And you were covered, too, you know."

"It would be too distracting for you," I repeat. She laughs again.

We've found a superhero movie to watch, and for the most part, we do.

It's interesting how tired a person can get doing little more than napping, making love, and lounging around.

I close my eyes, willing myself to imprint the memory of this day into my brain, tattooing it there. Because I know that one day I'll need it. When I've become an old and lonely man, I'll need these memories of her to keep me going. To give me some sort of will to live my miserable life.

Morgana may be able to take Guinevere away from me, but she cannot take my memories of her away from me.

At least I hope she can't.

Oh, God, that thought never occurred to me before…

"Come back," Guinevere's soft voice and soothing fingertips drift into my consciousness.

"Sorry," I apologize for what feels like the thousandth time.

"You were gone again," she observes. She lifts her head and shifts, resting her chin on her crossed hands on my chest. "I had you most of the day, though."

"I'm back now, I promise," I say, touching the tip of her nose with my finger. "I'm trying not to drift off so much, honest."

"I know. And I have noticed that you're with me more often than not now." She stretches up and kisses me. "Thank you."

"I should be thanking you," I say. "You have more patience than I would have thought possible." I kiss her again.

"It's not always easy," she admits. She kisses my neck.

"I know," I say, closing my eyes as her lips on my skin starts distracting me. "But I want you to… know that I… really appreciate… you…" The rest of my sentence dies as her lips close over mine.

xXx

When sleep finally finds us, it's a deep, dreamless sleep. I cling to her like she is my lifeline and she lets me, despite the sweatiness, despite the limited movement.

I need her like I need air or nourishment or water. She is consuming my every waking thought.

I'll worry about Day 60 when it comes.


	44. Day 43

"Don't wake up; I'm just going to run home quick and grab a change of clothes. Shave. Maybe shower while I'm at it," I whisper, my lips brushing her temple. "I'll be back before you know it."

She snuggles deeper into the bed and sighs. "Take my keys so I don't have to let you back in, then," she mumbles.

I smile and kiss her forehead before I go.

In my car, alone with my thoughts, the guilt comes. Now that I'm alone, away from her soothing presence, it crashes over me in a hot wave, leaving me cold in its wake.

I drop my head against the steering wheel of my car. I don't see the light turn green and the car behind me honks impatiently. I lift my head and will myself to keep driving.

I just had what was probably the best 24 hours of my life, and now I feel positively ill. Physically sick.

She's wonderful and amazing, which I knew. But she's also wonderfully, amazingly passionate and… just _really_ good in bed. It was like she was made exclusively for me.

No. I was made exclusively for _her._ I was put on this earth for her, to make her happy, to see to it that she is warm and safe and… cared for.

And I really want to do that. I want to keep her warm and safe and look after her and be there for her when she's sad or upset and celebrate with her when she's happy.

But I _can't_. And now I've just made this whole mess 100 times worse.

I try to push the guilt away, and I can't. I feel cold. I'm sweaty. This feels like that time I had food poisoning when I was 19.

I'm afraid I'm going to have to pull over, but I make it home. Then I run upstairs, shakily manage my key into the lock, and bolt inside, leaving my keys dangling in the door while I run for the bathroom.

I heave the contents of my stomach into the toilet. My stomach is empty, though, so all that comes up is some thick yellowish bile. It's bitter and burns my throat.

I lean my head against the cold porcelain of the bowl. I'm hot now, and shaky. The logical part of my brain tells me to have a slice of dry toast. My stomach says _oh, no_ and I heave again, my stomach seizing as it tries to leap out of my throat.

I lean against the wall of the bathroom, legs drawn up, my forearms resting on my knees, head hanging between them.

My chest feels tight, and for a moment I wonder if I'm having a heart attack as well. My heart _hurts._ Not in the I'm-sad-because-I-miss-you way, but in the I-feel-like-someone-is-stabbing-me way.

This is bad.

I need to calm down. I can't go back to her flat like this. And I can't _not_ go back to her flat. She's expecting me back. Plus, I have her keys.

Plus, I _can't_ stay away.

Shower. I need to take a nice, long, hot shower. I can always think clearly in the shower. I don't know if it's the isolation, or the fact that no one can disturb me in there, or the white noise of the water, or the hot water beating on my head, but there's just something about it that gives me a level of clarity I don't get anywhere else.

I'm in the second bathroom, though, because it's closer to the front door. I need to go to my bathroom. Shit, my keys are still hanging from the lock, too.

I stagger to my feet, retrieve my keys, and make my way back to my room and my shower.

The water feels good. I crank it as hot as I can tolerate and just stand, letting it flow over me, pretending it's washing away more than just the surface dirt.

I need to get it together. I don't know that I can, though. If I didn't have her keys I could send her a text telling her that I'm ill and need to stay home. Cowardly; and not a viable solution anyway.

Fuck me, why did I do it? Well, I _know_ why I did it. She's beautiful and wonderful and funny and sexy and smart. I couldn't have held off forever.

Oh, who am I kidding? I knew I was going to sleep with her all along. I only resisted as long as I was physically able. I only resisted because I… think too highly of her. She's a much better person than I am; she deserves someone who can cherish her _forever._

But she's like a drug. I've known this for a while now. I'm an addict, and she's my drug. She's my drug and she's my light and she's…

Going to be out of my life forever in 17 days.

I turn and face the spray of the shower, tilting my face up into it, closing my eyes tight.

I don't know what to…

No. I _do_ know.

I take my face out of the spray and wipe the water from my eyes.

I have to tell her. It's the only way I can make it through the next few weeks.

She needs to know.

Everything.

_Everything._

She already knows more about me than anyone else; more than Father, more than Leon. Probably more than Morgana, with all her powers.

She needs to know. She _deserves_ to know.

I have to tell her.

I'm going to tell her as soon as I get back to her.

Yes.

I will tell her.

Suddenly, my stomach un-clenches and I don't feel the pressing pain in my chest. It's like the clouds have parted and the sunlight has come bursting through.

This is the right thing to do. I owe it to her to tell her.

I reach for my soap and start cleaning myself up so that I can return to her flat.

Come hell or high water, I'm going to tell her.

xXx

I swallow, take a deep breath, and open the door. It's quiet. It's nine already, isn't she up yet? I hope she's not… waiting for me. I need to talk to her, but if she's undressed, it's going to make it very difficult.

"Guinevere?" I call, setting her keys on the small table beside the door while I slip my flip-flops off.

The bathroom door is closed, but I don't hear anything. I knock. "Guinevere?"

"I'm here," she says. She doesn't sound good.

"Are you all right?" I ask.

There's a pause. "No."

Panic seizes me. _What did I do?_ "What's wrong?" I ask, struggling to keep my voice even while my fingers dig into the wood framing the door.

"My stomach."

"May I come in?"

"I'd rather you didn't," she says.

It's not a "no," so I try the knob. It turns, and I open the door to see her in her dressing gown, curled in a ball on the bathroom rug. From the looks of things, she took a shower in an attempt to feel better. "Oh, no," I say, dropping to the floor beside her. "We need to get you off this floor."

"Want to stay here. Close to the toilet. I threw up," she tells me. I'm rubbing her back, stroking her hair.

"You can't stay on the floor, come on," I say. I help her to her feet and immediately her right hand goes to her abdomen, lower, on the right side.

"It hurts there, where your hand is?" I ask, helping her back to her room, laying her on the bed, where she immediately curls up again. I sit beside her, tucking an escaped curl behind her ear.

She nods, groping for the bedcovers. "Cold," she says. I place my hand on her forehead.

"That's because you have a fever," I say. "Can I see something? You have to uncurl, though."

Obediently, and to my surprise, she uncurls. "Where?" I ask. She points. "I want to check something." I press my hand on the spot. Nothing. Oh, dear. "This might hurt," I say, lifting my hand.

She jumps, crying out when my hand moves away. "Mother F…!" she curses. Almost curses.

"Sorry, I had to check," I say, kissing her forehead, her cheek, wiping away a tear. "Sorry," I repeat. "But we need to get you to hospital now."

"Hospital? Why?" she asks, tears starting again. "What's wrong with me?"

"I think it's your appendix," I say. I kiss her forehead one more time and head to her dresser, looking for something for her to wear. She can't go in her robe.

"No… how do you know?" she asks. She's curled back up again.

"I had my appendix out when I was 12. That test I just did isn't something you easily forget," I say. I find a pair of underwear, some of those yoga pants, and a t-shirt. Good enough. "Come on, let's get some clothes on you," I say.

She huddles. "Cold."

"I know, Love, come on," I say quietly. "I'll take you and you'll feel better soon."

I help her get dressed, getting into a brief and pointless argument about whether or not she needs a bra. "Guinevere, they're just going to make you strip once you get there anyway," I say, and she acquiesces.

She slips her feet into a pair of flip-flops, the same ones she was wearing the day I met her, in fact. I now see that what I thought was a multicolored pattern is, in fact, little different-colored mustaches. It makes me chuckle.

"What's funny?" she asks sullenly.

"Sorry. Your shoes. The mustaches."

"Oh," she says with a weak smile. I see my navy hoodie on a hook by the door, so I grab it and help her put it on. It's a beautiful warm day, but she says she's cold. "Thank you."

She grabs her purse and I lead her down to my car. The whole time my brain is repeating the same phrase.

_Please don't let this be my fault._

Selfish? A little. But I would die a thousand deaths if I knew that I caused this to fall upon her just because I had to give in to my lust.

Well, she _was_ a very willing participant.

But she doesn't _know._

And therein lies my problem. Now I'm an even bigger shithead because I gave in and had her. I wanted her so badly, I wanted to feel her skin against mine, wanted to hold her in my arms all night and pretend that we could stay that way forever.

But it was all pretend.

Well, not _all_ pretend. What I feel for her is so real that it scares the life out of me.

It scares me because _nothing can ever happen between us._ Not in any permanent way. This knowledge hurts more and more.

"Almost there," I say. I've been quiet this whole time, and I feel a bit guilty about it. She's been pretty stoic, but I know how much pain she's in.

I pull up under the canopy to drop her off. "No," she says. "Don't leave me."

"I'm not going to leave you, I'm just letting you off and then I'm going to park the car," I say. "So you don't have to walk as far."

"Just park the bloody car, Arthur."

I park the bloody car. Then I walk with her to the entrance, my arm around her, her hand still holding that spot on her abdomen.

"Oh, this does look really nice," she says as we approach the doors. "It's beautifully done, Arthur."

I stare at her. She's admiring the architecture _now?_ "Um, thank you, but I think we need to get you inside," I say.

"Yeah," she says.

We get inside and check in. The nurse eyes me skeptically when I tell her I'm pretty sure it's her appendix. I explain that I've had mine out, but she still doesn't seem to believe me.

I guess she doesn't like working Sundays. We are given a clipboard with a form to fill out and are told to wait.

I work on the form for her, as she's huddled in a ball in the chair, leaning against me.

"What's your address?" I ask. I know where she lives, obviously, but not the actual numbers. She tells me.

"Birthdate?" She tells me this as well.

"Primary Physician?"

"Jacob Gaius."

"Really?"

"No, I'm lying. Yes, really." She's getting irritated with me.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like I don't believe you. It's just Dr. Gaius is my doctor, too." I lean over and kiss her head.

"Oh, okay."

"He's actually a f—"

"Friend of your father's, I'm guessing?"

"Yeah," I chuckle and return to the form. "Um, do you have an insurance card?"

She sighs and tosses her purse in my lap. I guess I'm on my own, now. I open her purse and find her wallet, which is where I guess everything I need is. I find her card, copy the numbers, and see the next line.

"Are you on any medications?"

"Birth control, obviously."

"Right. Do you know the name of it?"

"I can't remember right now. Look, they should bloody well have that information on file, shouldn't they?"

"I would think so. I'll just put 'birth control' and let them sort it out."

"Good."

"Guinevere?" A nurse with a folder calls her name and Gwen slowly stands.

"You're coming with me," she says. Not asking.

"All right, if it's okay with them," I say. The nurse holds her hand out for the clipboard. "I haven't finished it yet," I say.

"That's all right, we can sort it out later," she says. "Are you…"

"Boyfriend," Gwen supplies. "I want him to come with."

"Very well. This way, please."

xXx

I was right. Guinevere has acute appendicitis and it needs to come out immediately.

I sit and fidget in the waiting room. There's a TV on, but it's showing some children's program with some puppet mouse that appears to be some sort of Rastafarian. It's very strange. I pull out my mobile and play a few games while I wait.

Oh, shit. I should call Sefa. I have Gwen's mobile in my other pocket, so I pull it out and find Sefa's number.

"Hello?"

"Percival?"

"Arthur?"

"Why are you answering Sefa's phone?"

"Why are you calling Sefa from Gwen's phone?"

"Guinevere is having her appendix out right now, and I thought Sefa should know. Now why are _you_ answering _Sefa's_ phone?"

"Oh, no. Um, Sefa's in the loo, and she heard her mobile ringing and told me to answer it because it was just Gwen."

"Ah."

"Is Gwen all right?"

"She's still in surgery. Has been for about 20 minutes now," I say.

"Keep us posted, mate. Here's Sefa," he says.

"What happened?" Sefa asks.

I tell her about what happened this morning, and that I don't have any updates beyond the fact that she's in surgery right now.

"Let me know when she's out, please," she says. "How are _you_ doing?"

"Pretty good, so far," I say. "Worried, but I know she's in good hands."

"You sound like a man with a lot on his mind," she says.

Bugger. I didn't know she could sense things over the bloody phone.

"Well… I just sent my girlfriend into surgery," I say evasively. "And they did seem to think that her appendix was pretty… what was the word they used? Hot."

"They will take good care of her, Arthur."

"I'll call you as soon as I can, Sefa."

"Thank you, Arthur."

We disconnect, and I switch to my own mobile to call Leon. He and Gwaine will want to know.

She has no blood family anymore, so her friends will have to do.

Friends. Mithian. I stash my mobile and pull Gwen's out again, flipping through, looking for Mithian. I think I'll just send her a text.

If it racks up her phone bill, I'll pay the difference.

_Hi, this is Arthur. Gwen is having her appendix out right now. Thought she'd want you to know. Will update when I can._

I put her phone away again, and grab mine. Leon's number is in Guinevere's mobile, but I don't want to be talking on a phone with a lavender case any longer than I have to.

By the time I finish talking with Leon, Mithian has texted back.

_Thank you for letting me know. Will wait for updates._

xXx

It's taking too long. It's been just over two hours. They said it would be about an hour, give or take. I ask the nurse at the desk. She tells me she doesn't have any information, but she'll see what she can find out.

It shouldn't take this long.

I'm worried.

Really worried.

It's taking too long.

Nothing is supposed to happen to her. It's supposed to happen to me. _Not_ her.

I'm pacing the waiting room, likely driving everyone else in here crazy. There's an old woman who's been giving me the eye for about half an hour now.

This can't be punishment for yesterday. It _can't_ be. I've had sex with a few of the others, and nothing ever happened to _them._

Apart from the inevitable, of course.

But still. None of them came down with appendicitis, or broke their leg, or even got a papercut.

But I never felt about them the way I do about Guinevere. I stop walking and stare.

That's the crux of it. I rake my hand through my hair, and start pacing again. I know she's different than the others. Special. Better.

I _like_ her. I truly do. I like her and I think she's beautiful and all I want to do is be with her. I stop walking again, struck.

"Mr. Pendragon?" I jump, startled. It's the nurse from the desk.

"Yes?" I turn around.

"She's just about done. There were some complications, but she's fine."

"Complications? What kind of complications?"

"Come with me," she says, leading me into a small room. "The surgeon would normally meet with you, but he got called in to assist with an emergency, so he asked me to fill you in. I'm sure you'll get an opportunity to speak with him later, though, but—"

"Please," I interrupt her. "What happened?"

"Sorry," she says, checking a sheet of paper. "Her appendix was quite inflamed, and when that happens, sometimes it kind of sticks to the cecum."

"And that is?"

"Part of the lower intestine. The part the appendix kind of hangs from," she explains. "That always makes things a little more complicated, because if we jostle the inflamed appendix too much, it might burst. And no one wants that."

"So, it didn't burst?" I ask.

"No, it didn't. It was just being a little stubborn."

"And she's all right?"

"Yes," she says, smiling warmly at me. She's older, rather motherly and caring. "She's probably in recovery right now, and when she's awake, they'll move her to a room. As soon as she gets a room number, I will let you know."

"Thank you," I say. I think my heart starts beating again. I exhale and run my hand through my hair again.

At this rate I'm going to make myself bald.

"Why don't you go to the canteen and get yourself something to eat?" she suggests, standing and opening the door. "You look drained and hungry."

That's right. I haven't eaten. It's after noon now. "Yeah. I haven't eaten yet, you're right."

"Here, I'll give you a pager in case you're not back when she gets moved," she says, reaching behind the desk for a little black box with a blinking light on it.

"Thank you," I say. I didn't know they had these. Of course I've never waited for someone in surgery before.

"The canteen is downstairs. You can take the lift to the lower level," she points.

"Thank you," I say again, pocketing my pager.

I walk towards the lifts and pull out Gwen's phone. I send a group text to Sefa, Mithian, and Leon.

_In recovery. Minor complication but she's fine. Haven't seen her yet. Going to eat now. -A_

Inside the lift, it dawns on me that I didn't get to tell her.

xXx

My pager went off while I was just finishing my somewhat bland chicken sandwich. I don't know if it's actually bland or it just tastes bland to me because of the state I am currently in.

I return my pager and the nurse gives me the room number. I mutter another quick thank you and take off for the lift again.

She's just been brought in when I get there. She's awake, sort of, and her normally glowing light brown skin is a little ashy.

"Arthur," she breathes, smiling weakly. "You stayed."

"Of course I stayed," I say, staying out of the way for the moment. But all I want to do is hold her and kiss her and make her feel all better.

"She'll be a bit groggy, but that's normal," the nurse turns and tells me.

"Oh," I say, surprised. "Hi, Freya."

She stares. "Oh. Yes. Hi. Um… Arthur, right?"

"Yes," I say. "I have to say I'm happy to see a familiar face taking care of Guinevere."

"I have to say I was surprised to see her in here. But I suppose appendicitis can sneak right up on a person, can't it?"

"Indeed. Snuck up on me when I was 12, in fact. Today it was Guinevere's turn," I say, stepping over to the bed, on the side without all the IVs. I take her hand in mine. It's cold, but it's soft. "Are you warm enough, Love?" I ask. "Your hand is cold."

"I'll fetch her another blanket," Freya says. "The surgeon should be here shortly." She makes a few notes on a whiteboard near the door and disappears.

We're alone, finally. I reach over and pull a chair closer, not letting go of her hand.

"I was worried. It took so long," I say, lifting her hand to kiss it.

"I feel terrible," she says.

"Well, they were just rooting around inside you," I say. "And not in that good way, either."

"Oh, don't make me laugh, please," she says, squeezing my hand.

"I'm sorry, darling, I shouldn't have… I just wanted to see you smile," I say, kissing her hand again.

"I know," she says, smiling weakly again. "Did you eat?"

Did I eat? Did she seriously just ask me that? "Yes, I did, once I knew you were okay. Sefa, Mithian, and Leon and Gwaine have all been contacted, too."

"Thank you," she says. She's drifting. I let her rest.

A few minutes later, a young doctor strides in, tall, thin, and pale. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and I can see that his arms are covered in tattoos. They're quite striking, mostly Celtic and Druid symbols.

A Druid doctor? I thought Druids were healers, not doctors.

"Hello, are you family?"

"Close as she's got," I say. "Her family's all—"

"Dead, yes," he says, gazing down at her. "You're the boyfriend." He looks at me and it's like his bright blue eyes (I've never seen eyes that blue before. It's unsettling) can see right into me. He frowns and raises an eyebrow at me. "For now," he adds, just loud enough for me to hear.

Shit. He _can_ see right into me.

"I'm Dr. Emrys, the surgeon who operated on Miss Leodegrance."

"Arthur Pendragon," I say, gently extracting my hand from hers to shake his hand.

"Yes," he says, giving me that penetrative stare again.

"I'll just… let you examine her," I say, stepping back.

"Thank you," he says. I watch him with interest. He's very strange. He's young. About my age, I would guess. Pale as a ghost apart from the tattoos, but hair black as pitch. Ears like handles. If his face weren't so angular, his head would look like a sugar bowl.

"The nurse gave you the run-down?" he asks.

Run-down? "Um, yes. It was stuck?"

"Just a bit. We were able to wiggle it free without having to make a long incision. We do try to do these things arthroscopically now. Less recovery time, you know."

"Mmm," I nod.

Gwen is restless, blinking awake now and then while the doctor checks her over. He speaks quietly to her while he works. I can't make out much of it since I am trying to stay out of the way.

He's got to be the strangest person I've ever met. He finishes checking her over, replacing her blanket. Just then Freya returns with the extra blanket.

"She was complaining of being cold," she says to Dr. Emrys, a flush rising in her cheeks as she speaks.

"Thank you, Freya," he says, looking at her with a strange, soft expression on his face. He steps aside to allow her to cover Gwen, watching her every move.

Definitely something going on between these two. My extensive experience makes me acutely aware of all the signs.

"Doctor," she says, almost a whisper, and leaves. He watches her exit, staring at the door a moment after she's gone.

Then he clears his throat and turns his attention back to Guinevere, frowning slightly as she squirms and frets in her sleep.

"Sometimes anesthesia does that," he mutters. He sighs, then bends down and kisses Gwen's forehead. She slips into a deep, peaceful sleep.

That may seem like a strange thing for a doctor to do, but it is perfectly normal behavior for a Druid healer.

When he bends over her, I notice yet another tattoo on the back of his neck, a strange, triangular swirl. It's the triskelion. He's a dragonlord. No, _the_ dragonlord; there's only ever one. He's the one that stopped the wyvern attack.

Bloody hell. I wonder how many tattoos this man has.

"So… you're a healer as well as a doctor?" I ask. He nods. "Doesn't that get… confusing?"

"Sometimes," he says, smiling suddenly. He's got one of those smiles like Gwen has, where you can't help but smile back. It's goofy and completely disarming.

I stare a minute. This man is a doctor, a healer, and the current dragonlord. He's the same age as me. Suddenly I feel like I'm not doing enough with my life.

"Why don't you just… heal her up, then?"

"She didn't sign the form for that," he says.

"Right. Of course," I say. Must have been paperwork she did while I wasn't there, because I don't remember seeing that on the form I filled in.

I need to know something, and I think he might be the only person who can answer my question apart from Morgana. "Um, can I ask you something?" I glance over at Gwen's sleeping form and pull him farther away from the bed.

"She's out. She can't hear you," he says.

"So… did I do this to her?"

"What, from all the sex?" he asks. "She kind of told us when we were prepping her. She was a little loopy from painkillers at the time, though," he chuckles, seeing my expression.

My mouth is hanging open. "No!" I finally say. I heave a large sigh. "But you can… tell… about me… right?" I ask hesitantly.

"About your curse? Yeah. You're wearing it like a hat, mate," he says casually.

"So our, um, activities yesterday… this isn't some sort of magical karma, is it?" I ask.

"Oh," he says, understanding. "You think that your enchantment hurt her as a direct result of your indulging your physical attraction to one another."

"Yes," I sigh. "Did it? I mean, it's never happened before, but it's been a long time since I've… …with anyone, and she's, well… she's different… so I was afraid…"

"Arthur. Chill. You're rambling, and this is not your fault."

Did he just tell me to chill? My mouth snaps shut. "It's not?"

"No. Just coincidental timing, I promise."

"You're certain?"

He just gives me a _look._ I relax a bit. "She's going to be okay, then?"

"She'll be fine," he tells me. Then he gives me that unsettling look again. "So will you." He places his hand on my shoulder. It's very warm. I thought doctors were supposed to have cold hands.

"What do you mean?"

"You aren't doomed forever," he tells me. "I promise you that." He squeezes my shoulder, gives me a sad smile, and then walks away.

I consider giving chase, to see if I can get more information from this Druid doctor, but I stop myself. I don't want to leave Guinevere. Besides, he's probably told me too much already. And I'm sure he's very busy.

xXx

I spend the afternoon sitting in Guinevere's hospital room, keeping watch, giving updates to our friends.

Our friends. That's another new concept.

Mithian asks for the number of a florist in Camelot so she and Karl can send flowers. I give her Hunith's number, which is in the contacts list in my mobile.

Leon and Gwaine want to come visit, but I suggest that tomorrow might be better, as Guinevere is mainly sleeping.

She wakes periodically, usually when Freya comes in to check her or administer medication.

Gwen rouses fully right about dinnertime. The orderly brings in a tray for her containing chicken broth, a rectangle of red jelly, and tea.

"Clear fluids, poppet, sorry," he says.

"Arthur, you should go get something to eat," she says, letting the orderly help her sit up.

"It's all right. I want to stay here."

"You can get something in the canteen and bring it up here," the orderly suggests. "No rule saying you have to eat down there."

"Go, Arthur. You've got to be starving," she urges, poking the jelly with her spoon. It shudders in its little bowl. She's clearly not thrilled with her meal.

"You won't mind?"

"Don't get anything good," she says, attempting a joke.

"That should be easy," the orderly shoots over his shoulder, chuckling, as he leaves.

"I'll be back as soon as possible," I say, leaning over to kiss her cheek. She cups my face with her hand.

"You shaved," she comments, stroking my cheek.

"I did. You said I was stubbly yesterday afternoon." I kiss her cheek again. "Be right back. Eat your clear fluids."

"Yes, Mum," she says, and I laugh. "See, appropriate use. Not while naked in bed," she calls after me as I exit the room. There is a hospital worker right outside the door who obviously heard what she said, because she gives me a very strange look. I just nod and head to the lift.

xXx

"You should go home, Arthur," Guinevere says later. We've got the telly on now, watching a show about polar bears.

"I'd like to stay," I say.

"They're going to kick you out. Visiting hours are over soon. I'm not critical and I haven't just had a baby. They won't let you stay."

"I'm coming back tomorrow morning, then."

"You should go to work."

"I should be here with you," I say, kissing her hand.

She sighs. "You don't need…"

I release her hand and pull out my mobile. I send a text to my father.

_Guinevere in hospital. Appendix out today. I won't be in tomorrow because I'll be here with her._

I show it to her and poke the _send_ button. "No arguments."

"Thank you. You didn't have to do that."

"I know that. I wanted to. There's a big difference."

He color is better, I notice. She's not pale and ashen anymore, but she's not as radiant as she usually is, either.

She's still beautiful, though.

My phone vibrates a moment later. "Let's see if we can decipher Father's text, shall we?"

_Okay. What Mumbai please_

"Well, at least he got the _okay_ right this time," I mutter.

"What did he have before? Olay, wasn't it?" she says, laughing, then wincing.

I frown at her. "I probably shouldn't tell you what he's asked, then."

"What?"

"He wants to know what Mumbai you are in."

She snorts, trying to hold in her laugh while I reply to Father.

"Mr. Pendragon, visiting hours are past over," the night nurse, an older woman called Alice, comes in and says.

"I know," I say, reluctantly standing. "I was hoping you wouldn't notice." I grin sheepishly at her. "Goodnight, Guinevere," I say, leaning over her again, helping her to get comfortable.

"It's my job to notice," Alice says, but she's smiling.

"Goodnight, Arthur. Sleep well. I mean it, now," Guinevere says, smiling up at me. I bend down and kiss her lips softly. "One more," she whispers. I smile and comply.

"Alice," I nod as I walk past, trying to ignore the expression on her face. I know what she's thinking.

The night nurse's very knowing smile plagues me all the way home to my condo.

It is only in my bed, in the safety of darkness, that I let the meaning of her look cross-reference with my musings in the waiting room. And with my feelings of worry and fear for her well-being.

Guinevere is my best friend.

I can't deny my feelings any longer.

I love her.

I love Guinevere.

I am deeply, helplessly, irrevocably in love with her.


	45. Day 44

I make a stop at Hunith's before I go to the hospital. I know others will be bringing flowers, but I cannot show up empty-handed either.

I'm early, and have to wait outside for her to open. Luckily she spots me through the glass door and lets me in five minutes before she officially opens.

I buy some interesting speckled things that she says are Peruvian lilies and a balloon shaped like a fat bumblebee with the message "Bee well soon" on it. It's really silly, but it made me laugh.

"There you are," Guinevere says when I come into her room.

"Here I am," I say, "and I brought presents." I show her the flowers, which she loves, and the balloon, which she laughs at.

"It hurts less today," she says. " _And_ I got to have oatmeal this morning."

"Hey, there's cause for celebration," I say. I set the vase in the windowsill and come over to kiss her. My chair is still where I left it, so I sit.

"You just missed Dr. Gaius," she says. "He says hello. I told him we were together."

"He didn't order a psych eval for you when you told him, did he?" I ask. Together, she said. Not _dating. Together._

"Of course not," she chuckles.

"Did he say when you might be able to go home?"

"Dr. Emrys has to sign off on that, but Dr. Gaius says likely tomorrow morning. Just because of the complication, I guess. They just want to make sure I'm good."

"Okay. Is Sefa going to collect your mail, or do you want me to do that?"

"Sefa will get it. I just use the same post as the shop. She'll just keep anything personal to the side for me."

"All right. Is there anything you need?" I ask.

"One of those chocolate cupcakes with the salted caramel from the bakery."

"Um, maybe tomorrow," I say, smiling at her. "I think that might get me in trouble right now."

"I know," she sighs.

xXx

Dr. Emrys stops in about mid-morning, just as Gwen is starting to droop again.

"Ah, we're more alert this time, very good," he says, smiling at her. "Last time I saw you, you were barely conscious, and the time before that you were all hopped up on painkillers and anesthetics."

Gwen chuckles at him, and I laugh a little too, stepping out of the way.

"How are you feeling, Gwen?" he asks, checking her over.

"Better than yesterday, which isn't saying much, is it?" she says.

"That's saying a lot, actually. You're tired now, though."

"Yeah," she agrees.

"How does this feel?" he asks, pressing somewhere on her abdomen.

"Tender," she says.

"Scale of one to ten, one being no pain at all, ten being 'kill me now.'"

She laughs. "Um, five?"

"Good. We'll send you home tomorrow morning. Now take a nap," he says, nodding decisively. Then he picks up her chart and marks it. "Arthur, nice to see you," he says. "That's a terrible balloon," he adds, laughing.

"Don't mock my balloon," Gwen mutters, settling into the bed to sleep.

"Don't make me _put_ you to sleep, now," Dr. Emrys threatens jokingly, smirking at her.

"Stop talking and I'll be _able_ to sleep," she says.

"Fair enough," he laughs. Then he looks at me. "Arthur," he says, angling his head at me as if I should follow him out.

"Um, I was going to stay here…"

"She's just going to be sleeping. I only wanted a quick word about looking after her when she goes home," he says, but the look on his face indicates otherwise.

"Go, Love, I'm fine," Gwen mutters sleepily.

"Okay," I say, following the doctor out.

In the corridor, he turns and looks at me. "Come have a coffee with me."

"Aren't you working?"

"Off duty now. Gwen was my last visit, and that was intentional. You need help. I'll buy you a cocoa, come on," he says.

He's going to help me? Why?

"Because you clearly don't know how to help yourself, that's why." He starts walking, and I follow.

"It's impolite to read someone's mind," I say.

"I don't read minds," he says. "I read bodies. Your expression had 'why' written all over it."

"But you're also a Druid," I say, falling in beside him now. "And a pretty powerful one, from the looks of you."

"Yes," he says. He doesn't elaborate.

"I don't like reading other peoples' thoughts. People have too much shit in their heads. It can be very disturbing."

"So you _can_ , then."

"Yes. I _can_ do a lot of things that I _don't._ The key to staying sane with the amount of power I have is knowing when to use it."

Wow, he's got more self-control than I have. And that's saying something.

"I'm also helping you because my mother seems to think you're worth helping," he says as we enter the canteen.

"Your mother?"

"Hunith."

" _You're_ Hunith's son? Merlin?"

He nods. "One large decaf, black, and a large cocoa, extra chocolatey," he tells the woman behind the coffee counter.

I don't even ask.

"She told me that I helped put you through your last year of medical school," I say.

He gives me that look again. "Probably."

We find a table in the corner near some windows and sit. There's a duck pond outside. "I like watching the ducks," he says, smiling a little.

He's a very strange man, and talking with him is giving me whiplash. One minute he's all deep and Druid-y; the next minute he sounds just like a regular man in his late 20s. I never know what's going to come out of his mouth next.

"I'm not going to lift your curse," he says, cutting straight to the chase.

"Oh," I say, blinking at him. "You can't?"

"Oh, no, I can. It's well within my ability. But… it's kind of a rule among magic users. A code, of sorts. Morgana put this on you for a definite reason. Since she had just cause, I cannot remove it. Er, _will_ not. It's… bad manners, for lack of a better term."

"Oh," I say, deflating in my chair a bit. "So she's not just being a spiteful bitch, then?"

"There is an element of that, certainly," he admits, chuckling. "She did also have reasons. But like I said yesterday: you aren't doomed yet."

"So I can get rid of this thing?"

"Absolutely."

"How?"

He stares at me for a long moment. I think he's thinking about what to say. How much to say, maybe.

"Arthur, do you know what the definition of insanity is?" he asks suddenly.

I have an idea. I've been living it for two years. "Enlighten me," I say. I am curious as to what _his_ definition is.

"It's doing the same thing over and over again and expecting it to yield different results."

Ah. I suppose that's true. "So, you're saying…"

"You've been doing the same thing over and over again for two years, Arthur. Do something different this time."

What can I do different? "Can you offer a suggestion?"

He presses his lips together. "I've already given you too much help already. I'm sure Morgana will see that we spoke, and I may have to deal with that. Just… think on it. Contrary to what other people may think, you're an intelligent person."

"What other people?" Who thinks I'm stupid?

He laughs. "It's just an expression. Use this time while Gwen is recovering to think. And trust yourself. You don't do that enough."

He's right. I don't.

xXx

I spend my day in Guinevere's room, keeping her company, watching her sleep, getting in Freya's way, sending updates on Gwen's status, and occasionally working a little on my laptop.

And thinking about what Merlin said to me this morning. I have been living this same cycle for two years. I've built rules and boundaries and guidelines and timetables for how I need to deal with my life. How I need to cope under this curse. She's made me break my rules, step across my boundaries, ignore my guidelines, and throw my timetables out the window.

Correction: She didn't make me do those things. Because of her, I _want_ to do those things all on my own.

Merlin said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results.

I _have_ been doing things differently with her. That's what's so bloody confusing. I know he's trying to help and all, but she's already well apart from the rest of the group.

Outside of the cave.

_Trust yourself. You don't do that enough._

I don't even bother wondering how he knows this. He's scary powerful; he probably could have told me what I had for breakfast a week ago Thursday if I had asked.

Scary powerful but strangely approachable and friendly. Even Guinevere was teasing with him this morning.

She makes a soft noise in her sleep, and I look over at her. She looks so young and sweet. Innocent, though I have first-hand knowledge of how wonderfully non-innocent she can be. Beautiful. Her hair is still back in its braid, but more and more tendrils are coming loose as the day wears on. She'll probably want to fix it soon.

I want to climb into the narrow bed with her and wrap my body around her, just holding her and keeping her safe and warm.

I think that would be frowned upon. She doesn't have her IV anymore; they removed that late yesterday afternoon. So she doesn't have any tubes attached to her or anything…

No. Tempting, but no. I reach over and tuck a curl behind her ear. She sighs in her sleep.

Trust myself. How can I trust myself when my hands are tied? When I _can't_ do what I _want_ to do? When I _don't know how the hell to get myself out of this._

Trust yourself, he said; you aren't doomed forever, he said.

Shit. Sometimes it seems like the only thing I can trust is the knowledge that every 60 days I have to hit the reset button because of my past behavior towards women, specifically, Morgause.

 _That's_ how I acted when I trusted myself. I was a complete arse, an arrogant douchebag who thought with his pecker.

I know I'm not that person anymore. But I don't know if this new person I've become is trustworthy. How do I know I won't slip back into old habits, if I do somehow lift this curse?

I don't. I guess that's _why_ I'm supposed to trust myself. Trust is about having faith that things will work out, even when you don't know the outcome.

But that's the problem. I don't have that faith. I don't know how things _can_ work out.

Morgana has taken my life as I knew it and shattered it into fragments. 60-day fragments.

I feel pretty fragmented right now.

I look over at the window. Flowers have arrived from Mithian and Karl as well as from my father. His even has a little stuffed bear holding the vase. I was shocked; Guinevere was highly amused.

I stand and walk to the window; I look at the flowers and the bear. People can't help but love her. Even my father is charmed by her, it seems.

I still have to tell her. Because I love her. It's going to be the hardest thing I've ever done, but I have to tell her.

Only I can't now, not till she's better. That wouldn't be fair.

Not that _any_ of this is fair.

Guinevere isn't supposed to suffer. Yes, Merlin assured me that the appendicitis was a coincidence, but still, curse notwithstanding, Guinevere is not supposed to suffer. It just tore at me yesterday, how much pain she was in, how scared she was. How small and pale she looked when I first saw her after the surgery. She doesn't deserve to be in any pain. Ever.

"Arthur?"

I turn. She's awake. "Hey," I say, smiling at her. "Did you have a good nap?"

"Yes. You were thinking too much again," she says, holding her hand out. She can read me too well.

I walk back over and take her hand, kissing it. "I'm going to be fine, so if you were worrying about that, don't," she says.

"I was, but also other things," I say.

"I had a feeling." She bites her lip a second. "Can you help me up? I have to pee."

"Of course," I say, helping her out of the bed and holding her elbow as she walks to the little closet that passes for a toilet.

"I've got it, thank you," she says, closing the door on me.

I wait outside the door, checking a text from Leon.

"Arthur?" Her voice comes through the door.

"Yes?"

"I'd really like to take a shower. Can you find Freya and find out if it's all right?"

"Sure," I say. I walk to the bed and press the nurse call button. Freya appears a minute later.

"Where's Gwen?" she asks.

"Loo. She wants to know if she can take a shower."

"Should be fine," she says, walking to the bathroom door. She knocks. "Gwen?"

"Yes?"

"You can go ahead and shower. Do you need any help?"

"I think I can manage, thanks."

"I'll fetch a clean gown for you."

"Thank you."

Freya gives me a small smile and heads back out.

I decide to stay posted outside the door and pull my chair over. If she slips and falls or something, I want to be nearby.

I scroll through my contacts to text Leon while I'm waiting, and I notice the name "Merlin Emrys" in my contact list.

I didn't add him. Shouldn't surprise me, though. Something like that is probably child's play for him.

Freya returns with a clean gown and unintentionally interrupts my musings over my mobile and Merlin's presence in it. She sets the gown on the bed, gives me a puzzled look, then leaves. I grab my laptop and check my work email. Nothing that I need to deal with right now.

Ten minutes later I hear the shower turn off, and I reach over and grab the clean gown.

"Arthur, are you there?"

"Right here," I say, standing and pushing my chair back over beside her bed.

The door cracks open and she peeks out.

"Here," I offer her the gown.

"Thank you," she says, taking it and disappearing again.

She emerges a few minutes later, squeezing her damp hair with a towel, trying to get it as dry as she can. She also looks like she's huddling into herself.

"You're cold," I say. She nods. "Let's get you in bed, then." I take the towel from her and toss it on the sink in the bathroom before I help her into bed.

She huddles in, pulling the blankets up to her chin, not bothering to re-secure her hair. I brush it away from her face, indulgently running my fingers through the damp tendrils.

"Come here," she says, reaching for my hand.

"I am here," I say, confused.

"No, I need you in here with me. I'm cold."

"I… I shouldn't. Freya's going to yell at me."

She tugs at my hand. I don't know why I think I can refuse her anything.

"Hang on," I say. I kick my flip-flops off and carefully scoot in beside her. On her left side. She immediately curls into me and my arms move around her.

It's a warm day and I have shorts on. I can feel her cold little toes against my calves.

"Mmm, you're so warm," she says.

Then Freya comes in. She stops cold when she sees us, hands firmly planted on hips.

"She was cold," I say.

"Freya, don't be mad," Guinevere says, turning her head to look at the nurse. "I made him do it. He did resist. I was just chilled after my shower and he's always warm."

Freya sighs. "Just mind your wound. And hands above the blankets, Pendragon," she says, fixing me in her stare.

"I would never!" I protest. Freya's expression breaks and she laughs a little.

"You are too easy," she says. "I know you wouldn't. Mer—I mean, Dr. Emrys told me you were a good man," she adds. She even flushes just thinking about him, I notice.

"Oh, good." My mobile buzzes. I left it on the side table. "Um, would you?" I ask.

Freya hands me my phone, then leaves.

My father has sent another text.

_Up for a visit or no_

I look down at Guinevere. She's not shivering anymore, but she's still clinging tight to me.

"Who is texting you?" she asks.

"Father. Actually wrote fairly intelligibly this time. He wants to know if he can visit."

She lifts her head. "Really? He wants to visit me?"

"That's how I interpret this," I say, showing her. "You can say no, it's fine."

"I don't think I'm up for a visit from Uther right now. Tell him thank you for the flowers and bear, please."

"Will do," I say, awkwardly attempting to text with her in my arms.

_Not a good time. She says thank you for the flowers & bear._

I send it, then send another one.

_She's going home tomorrow. I'm still off._

A few minutes later, he writes back.

_Okay. You have to bein Wed._

Well, of course I know I have to be in on Wednesday. That's the groundbreaking. I send back one word.

_Duh._

Then I set my mobile down on the bed and just enjoy holding my Guinevere, keeping her safe and warm.

Trust myself. Maybe I can trust myself because I love her.

xXx

"Guinevere, I was wondering something," I say. We've just finished dinner. She was given some sort of chicken stew that she said really needed salt. I had a burger that _maybe_ had some beef in it. I did sneak her a couple of my chips, which she treasured like they were precious things even though they were kind of crap.

"What's that?"

"When you're released tomorrow, would you consider coming to my house instead of yours?"

"Um, thank you for offering, but I was really hoping to be at my own flat," she says. "I mean, your house is lovely and all, but I just really want my own bed and all the comforts of my own home." She smiles apologetically at me.

"That's fine, I completely understand that. I just thought I'd offer," I say. I'll just pack myself a bag and stay there for a couple of days.

"You can… stay there with me. If you want to," she offers, hesitantly.

"Oh, I was planning on that," I say immediately. "I'm not just going to dump you off and go about my day."

"You can go to work tomorrow, Arthur, I'll be fine," she says.

"I am not going to work tomorrow. I already told Father. I have my laptop. If anyone needs me, Father and Leon both know where to find me."

"Well, you could work the afternoon…"

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" I ask, smirking at her.

"No! I just… don't want you to feel you _have_ to look after me. I'd be fine if you wanted to work."

" _Wanted_ to work…" I say, pondering it like it is a completely foreign concept.

She laughs, "All right. Do what you want."

"Thank you," I say. Then I lean over and kiss her.

"Hey, this is a hospital, knock that off!" Gwaine's boisterous voice interrupts us. He and Leon come striding in, a plastic beverage cooler in tow.

"What on earth?" Gwen asks, seeing the cooler. "You lot didn't bring alcohol into a hospital, did you?"

"Better," Leon says, opening the cooler. He withdraws a small Styrofoam bowl with a lid. "Ice cream," he declares.

"Gelato, actually," Gwaine declares. "We decided that flowers were boring and overdone – no offense, mate – and that this would be a much better option."

"And _yes,_ we brought enough for everybody," Leon says, glancing at me.

"What?" I ask innocently. He knows I love gelato.

"I get first pick," Gwen says, brightening immediately. "What kind do you have?"

"Let's see," Gwaine pulls out the bowls and reads the lids. "We have… orange with dark chocolate flake, chocolate turtle, Amaretto crème brulee, and coconut banana. Miss Chickadee?"

"Ooo, I want them all," she says, biting her lower lip thoughtfully. "But I think I need that Amaretto one."

"Excellent choice," Gwaine says, pulling a pink plastic spoon out of the bag and handing her the appropriate container. "Arthur?"

"I get second?" I ask, surprised.

"Leon told me that you'd be drooling, so, yes. I, for one, would be content to watch you drool a bit, but…"

"Gwaine," Leon sighs.

I laugh. "I'll take the orange," I say. That's actually my favorite, and if I am completely honest, I was very relieved that Guinevere didn't choose it.

"Knew it," Leon says. Gwaine hands him one without asking which one he wants, and Leon grins at him.

"What do you have, Leon?" Gwen asks.

"Coconut banana. It was one of my picks at the shop, so I think Gwaine knew I wanted that one."

"And what was the other?" she asks. "Oh, bloody hell, this is amazing," she says.

"My other choice was the orange chocolate. It's Arthur's favorite."

"Aw, you picked it for your friend," Gwen says, smiling indulgently at us. "What would you have done had I chosen that one?" she asks me.

"I would have chosen the turtle and kept all my pain on the inside," I say. "And I would have asked for a bite."

She laughs. "You can have a bite of this one," she offers, holding her spoon out.

"Wow, that _is_ good," I say.

"Good, now can I try yours?" she asks.

Everyone samples all the flavors, and they're all excellent. Gwaine and Leon negotiate a trade halfway through. Gwen looks at me, raising an expectant eyebrow. I huddle my shoulders, holding my bowl to my chest like it was the Precious.

She laughs at me again. "I didn't think so anyway. I just wanted to see your reaction."

Gwaine and Leon visit for a bit, taking their leave shortly after the gelato has all been consumed. Gwaine moved into Leon's condo over the weekend, and they're still unpacking him and sorting everything out.

It's nearly eight, the end of visiting hours. I don't want Alice to come in and throw me out again, and Guinevere is tired, so I decide to start packing it in as well.

"Going so soon?" she asks.

"I think Alice will have my head if she has to come and toss me out two nights in a row. Plus, you are tired." I lean over and kiss her. "You're going home tomorrow, so get some rest tonight."

"Yeah, because I won't be able to rest in my home, in my own bed, where it's actually quiet at night," she says, smirking at me. I kiss her again.

"I'll see you in the morning, Love," I say. Then I kiss her one more time, just as Alice walks in. "Leaving right now," I say. "See? Walking out the door."

"Goodnight, Arthur. Sleep well," Guinevere calls after me.

"Thank you," I turn and smile at her.

I've had her keys for two days now, and I head to her flat.

I've got things to do.

I know it's probably not the way _she_ would do things, but I clean her flat. I empty the trash bin, wash the few dishes in the sink, and generally tidy up. Her clothes hamper is about half full, so I decide to take it with me back to my house and do her laundry. I head into her room and am about to make her bed when I decide to wash her sheets as well.

I'm sure they need it after last weekend. I'll just have to come back here early tomorrow and make her bed again before she comes home.

She probably has spare sheets somewhere, but I don't know where they would be and I don't really feel like searching.

I bring her laundry home and pray that I don't ruin anything.

I'm sure I'm folding all her things completely wrong, too.

But I don't really care. I know she'll appreciate the effort, even if I do it all wrong.

It's one of the things I love about her. She manages to see the good things that other people miss.

Merlin says I should trust myself. I think perhaps I should trust Guinevere instead.


	46. Day 45

I'm running into the hospital now. Guinevere sent me a text that she'd been discharged while I was just finishing making her bed.

I thought I'd have more time. But apparently the hospital staff saw fit to discharge her at 8:30 in the morning.

"Hey," I say, breathing a bit heavily, but not too badly. I do run several mornings a week anyway. Today, I just happen to have a destination.

"You didn't need to run, Arthur," Guinevere says, laughing at me. She's dressed in the same clothes she wore Sunday is and perched on the end of the bed, chatting with Freya and Merlin. Dr. Emrys. Merlin. I don't know how to think of him anymore.

"She's good to go," Merlin says. "No heavy lifting for two weeks, no… _adult_ activities for at least a week."

" _Adult_ activities? You mean like voting?" I ask. It's out before I can help myself, and my lack of discretion is rewarded with a fit of laughter from Guinevere, who holds her right side. Freya is pressing her lips together very tightly, trying not to laugh.

"Aw, and here I was going to enlist in the Royal Navy this week," Gwen manages, and now I start laughing.

Merlin just rolls his eyes and ignores us. "You can go back to work next week, Gwen. I know it'll be hard, but you should be resting."

"A whole week?"

"Okay, _maybe_ Friday. But don't push it. I'll know," he warns, pointing his pen at her.

"I had to get the Druid surgeon," Gwen says wryly at me, smirking.

"I'll make sure she behaves herself," I say.

"Really?" Merlin asks, angling a skeptical and slightly mocking eyebrow at me.

"Um…" I stammer. Redirect. "Are you ready to go, Guinevere?" I ask.

"Was just waiting on you," she says, laughing. "Goodbye, Freya, thank you for taking such good care of me. Please thank Alice for me as well."

"Not a problem at all, Gwen. Just doing my job, you know," Freya says, leaning over to receive Guinevere's hug.

"Dr. Emrys, I hope we meet again under different circumstances," she says, chuckling.

"Me, too," he nods and shakes her hand. "Make sure this one takes good care of you now," he adds, nodding his head at me.

"Oh, I won't let him slip away," she says, smiling at him, then me.

"Good," Merlin says, rather definitively.

"All right, I'm hungry. Let's go home," Guinevere says, taking my hand.

As we walk through the door, I experience something I hope never to feel again: another person's voice inside my head.

_You can handle this thing. I'll be in touch._

It stops me short, and Guinevere looks up at me. "Arthur?"

I glance at Merlin, and he appears to be having a private conversation with Freya (very private, from the looks of things; his hand is on her bloody cheek). He looks up a moment, fixes me in that blue stare of his for just a second, then returns his attention to Freya.

"Oh, sorry. I thought for a moment I'd forgotten my mobile at home. But it's right here," I say, quickly thinking of a cover.

 _That was a dirty trick_. I think it as loud as I can, just in case he's listening.

_Sorry. Next time I'll send a raven with a note on its leg._

All right…

He's so strange.

xXx

We stop in the shop first, at Guinevere's insistence. Sefa hugs her warmly and immediately apologizes for not sending flowers. I'm carrying one of the vases of flowers, so I kind of shuffle it behind me, trying to hide it.

"Sefa, it's all right. You've been running my shop. That's much more important than flowers," Gwen reassures her.

"I still feel bad. So does Percival. Even though he's in Caerleon now."

"Stop," Gwen says, waving her hand dismissively. "All right, my reason for being here. Dr. Emrys says I can't go back to work until next week. He said maybe Friday if I felt really good."

"You had Dr. Emrys?" Sefa asks. "Wow, you're lucky."

"He was excellent. Really great guy, too, I liked him a lot."

"He's very well-known in the Druid community, obviously, what with who he is and everything. And of course I know him because of Freya," she says.

"Yeah," Gwen laughs. "I think they think no one can tell."

"Bugger, _I_ could tell," I chime in, laughing. "If _that's_ hiding a relationship, then I'm a hedgehog," I say, and they laugh.

Sefa sighs. "I'll have to tell her that they either need to dial it back – again – or let the cat officially out of the bag. He's going to marry her next year anyway, I don't see what the big deal is."

"They're engaged?"

"Not officially. Freya saw it. She has dreams sometimes. She didn't tell Merlin; says she wants to let him think he's surprising her."

Women.

Guinevere laughs. "They were really very sweet."

I notice she's looking a little tired. "Guinevere, we should go up," I say. "Didn't you say you were hungry?"

"Yeah. Sefa, don't forget to—"

"Everything is under control, Gwen," Sefa cuts her off, shooing her out the door. "If there is a major jewelry emergency, I know where to find you. You need to rest and get better."

"Fine," Guinevere huffs. I start guiding her out the door and she stops me.

"No, this way. It connects in the back," she says, taking my hand and pulling me to the back.

She pauses near her bench. "Move along, nothing to see here," I say, ushering her past.

"But…"

"No. Upstairs, young lady."

"Yes, Mum," she shoots at me. I open the door and we go upstairs.

"Arthur, did you…" she says, looking around when we go inside.

"Clean up? Yes. I came over here last night and straightened up a bit for you," I say.

She turns and hugs me, tight. "That is so incredibly sweet of you," she says, her voice muffled a little by my chest. She lifts her head and kisses me. "Thank you," she says.

"I didn't want you to have to worry about anything when you came back," I say. "It wasn't a big deal." It really wasn't.

She releases me and goes to the kitchen. "You did the dishes…" she says. I hear her running the tap.

"Guinevere," I say, striding in and taking the kettle out of her hand. "You go lie down. Or sit. I will make you some tea if that's what you want."

"I'm not an invalid," she complains. I realize that she's one of those stubborn patients.

"You kind of are, at least today. Don't make me report you to Dr. Emrys. He'll magic you so you're trapped in your bed."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she shoots at me, smirking.

"Wait, I didn't mean it that way…" I backpedal, shoving the mental images away. Stupid pervy brain.

"I know," she says, laughing. "I'm just going to change clothes. Is that all right with you?"

"Yes. Do you want some toast?"

"Please."

I put the kettle on and put some bread in the toaster.

"You did my laundry, too?" she exclaims from her bedroom.

"Um, yeah," I say, wandering towards her room. "I probably folded it all wrong and I hope I didn't shrink anything. I hope you don't mind my detergent brand…" I stop because she's standing in her bedroom, half dressed, just smiling at me. It's rather distracting, Guinevere standing in front of me in just a t-shirt and knickers.

"You did fine," she says finally. She turns and looks at her bed. "And you made my bed."

"Um, I washed your sheets, too," I say.

"Oh, Arthur…" she sighs. She walks over to me – put some trousers on, for the love of – and strokes my cheek, pulling my face down to hers for another kiss. "You are wonderful," she says.

"You need to put some trousers on," I croak.

"Oh, my God! Sorry!" she exclaims, remembering herself. "I was so distracted by everything you've done here, and, well, after Naked Day…" she giggles a little.

"Yes, well, you're not the only one who's distracted," I say. I hear the toaster. "Saved by the toast." I head back to the kitchen just in time to take the kettle off the stove, too.

I fix her tea – milk, no sugar for her, plain for me – and ask her what she wants on her toast. She says something about marmalade in the fridge, and when I come out with her breakfast, she's made herself comfortable on the couch.

"You should be in bed," I say.

"I've been in a bed for two days," she says. "I want the couch right now."

She takes her toast and tea and flips through the channels, looking for something to watch. I take a sip of my tea, then set it down.

"I'm going to run downstairs and get the rest of your flowers and my things," I say.

"Okay," she says.

I grab her keys again and jog down the stairs. I will be doing this in one trip. I sling my garment bag and my laptop bag over my shoulder and take a vase in each hand. Shit. The stupid bear fell off. I pick it up and tuck it under my arm.

When I re-enter her flat, Guinevere is looking rather droopy on the couch. I set my things down and go over to her.

"Getting tired, sweetheart?" I ask, kissing her temple.

"Yeah. Sit with me a minute," she says, tugging my arm. I sit, and she moves into my arms. I hold her carefully for a few minutes, occasionally kissing her here and there until she starts nodding.

I don't want to carry her because I don't want to hurt her. "Guinevere," I say, "you're falling asleep. Why don't we put you to bed?"

"'Kay," she mumbles. I help her to her feet and tuck her in.

"I'll be right out there. Doing exciting things like checking work email and watching crappy chat shows because that's all that's on right now."

She smiles and sighs, drifting off almost immediately.

xXx

I do some work while she naps. Groundbreaking is tomorrow, so there's a lot of last-minute planning and messages flying around. I send Leon a text asking if he could stop at the bakery and pick up a couple of those cupcakes and bring them over. I ran out of time to pick them up this morning.

I figure that way if my attempt at lunch is crap, we can at least have dessert.

My phone buzzes. I figure it's Leon.

I look. It's Dr. Emrys. Merlin.

_M: I spoke with the Taliesin. He confirmed that I cannot lift your curse._

Oh. This surprises me. Not only that he would text me, but also that he would go and check that out for me.

As I stare at the text, the word _cannot_ changes itself to _should not._ I almost drop my phone, but recover quickly.

_A: Thank you for checking._

The Taliesin is the head of the Druid community. It's a title, not a name, though there was a Druid called Taliesin once, years and years ago.

_M: He says I have helped you enough._

_A: I might disagree with that…_

_M: LOL. You have the answers you need._

The dragonlord just LOL'ed at me. I like this bloke, but he takes some getting used to.

_A: You know something that you're not telling me._

_M: I know a LOT of things I'm not telling you._

_A: Well that's certainly irritating._

_M: Get used to it._

_M: It's not any fun for me, either, believe me._

He has a point. I know the burden of having information that I can't share.

_A: Um, yeah, I can understand that._

_M: To a lesser degree._

I have to stop hanging around people that are smarter than me. Though in my own little world, my secret is still pretty big.

Then I have a thought.

_A: Why aren't you Taliesin? Aren't you more powerful?_

_M: Don't you think I have enough to worry about already?_

_A: Good point._

_M: Also I'm too young._

_A: So, maybe when you're older?_

_M: No. Even if I wanted it, there's a law that the dragonlord cannot be Taliesin._

_A: I suppose that's wise._

_M: Of course it is._

I snort. He's kind of arrogant, but in a rather humorous way that only makes you like him.

_A: So are you actually typing in all these texts or are they just appearing on my phone?_

_M: What do you think?_

_A: I think they're just appearing on my phone, given that your name mysteriously added itself to my contacts list yesterday._

_M: Nothing mysterious about that. I put it there using magic._

Smartass.

_A: And also your first text changed itself as I was reading it. Almost dropped my phone._

_M: Sorry. I was hoping to do that before you saw it. And yes, I'm doing this with magic._

_A: Figured._

_M: I'm a busy man, you know._

_A: Right. Hey, I thought you were going to send a raven this time?_

_M: He was washing his hair._

_A: You are bizarre._

_M: I'm the most powerful wizard in the world. I'm allowed._

_A: Good point._

_M: I will be in touch._

_A: Thank you again. Guinevere is sleeping right now, BTW._

_M: I know. Later._

See, it's things like that last text that just give me whiplash.

I'm about to set my phone down, and it buzzes once more.

_M: One more thing: Stop using your curse as a crutch._

_A: What is that supposed to mean?_

_M: Nice try. That's not a cabbage inside your skull, you know. Stop acting like it is._

_A: Pain in the arse._

_M: You have no idea. :)_

He's probably right about that.

xXx

I go all out for lunch. Well, as all-out as I can manage unsupervised by Guinevere. I make us toasted cheese sandwiches with fruit to go with.

Leon dropped off the cupcakes five minutes after I finished texting with Merlin. I've got them hidden right now. They're a surprise.

Guinevere woke up around noon, feeling better, but needing ibuprofen. Easily dealt with. I bring her some with her lunch, back to the couch (she didn't want to sit at the table), and when I join her, she's got a cooking show on the telly again.

I'm getting used to it now.

"You did a good job, Arthur," she tells me after her first bite.

"Hard to mess up toasted cheese," I say. "But I suppose it could burn."

"Yes, and you didn't burn them. They are perfect. The fruit is good, too."

I snort. "Well, that was just here," I say. "I'm glad you like the sandwich. I've… actually found myself watching some of those cooking shows more and more. When you're better, you're going to have to continue to teach me."

She smiles and takes another bite of her sandwich.

It occurs to me suddenly that making long-term plans is getting pretty stupid. I have just over two weeks left with her. She'll probably never get the opportunity to teach me how to cook.

Maybe when I'm lonely and impotent I can take some cookery classes to occupy my time.

"You're gone again," she says, softly.

Every time. She catches me every bloody time now.

Luckily her presence usually keeps these dark thoughts away, but when they creep in, she always knows immediately.

"Sorry," I say. "Really, I am. I'm trying not to do that anymore. I know you don't like it. _I_ don't like it."

"I know, Love, it's all right. That's why I've been mentioning it, bringing you back. Because I know you usually don't realize you're doing it until it's done," she smiles at me.

"Oh," I say. "Um, thank you." I lean over and kiss her cheek.

See, _this_ is another reason why I have to tell her. Now the question just becomes when.

"How are you feeling? I know you needed some ibuprofen, but other than that?" I ask, changing the subject.

"It twinges sometimes. I think I rolled onto my right side while I was sleeping," she says.

"Didn't they give you a prescription or anything? I can run out to the chemist's after lunch…"

"He offered, but I said no. Strong pain medication just makes me sick to my stomach. I learned that the hard way when I had my wisdom teeth out."

"Got it," I say.

"Even in hospital, once I was fully conscious, I told Freya not to give me the strong stuff."

"Tough bird," I say, grinning at her.

"I make do," she says.

She finishes her sandwich and settles back on the couch while I finish my second sandwich (I made myself two).

I've put her flowers around, and the vase from me is on the coffee table. She looks around, over at the one from Father.

"So, what was up with your father wanting to visit me? That was unexpected," she says, reaching over for the bear. He's sitting on a side table. I just sort of dropped him there and forgot about him.

"It was," I say. "He probably was in the neighborhood." I shrug.

"Oh, lovely, not 'he thought you were lovely and charming once he got to know you and was genuinely concerned for your well being?'" she teases.

"Well, obviously it could be that as well, but even _you_ said it was surprising," I say. "It was surprising enough that he sent flowers, actually. Though he probably had Geoffrey handle that."

"Arthur…" she says, chiding me. "Even if Geoffrey did do the ordering, he still had the thought to send them."

It may well have been Geoffrey's idea, but I don't say anything. He still had to authorize it. "Well, whatever the reason, I do not think you need to worry about my father's opinion of you."

"Apparently not," she says, setting the little bear on her lap, holding him while she watches telly.

Wouldn't mind being that bear right now.

I take our plates back to the kitchen and clean everything up. When I return, I have two small plates in my hands, a cupcake on each one, both chocolate with salted caramel.

"Surprise," I say.

"You remembered!" she exclaims. "Did you get these last night?"

"No, they were closed. Leon fetched them for me this morning. Brought them 'round while you were napping. I was intending to get them before I picked you up this morning, but you were discharged earlier than I was expecting."

She unwraps her cupcake, smiling broadly. "Thank you, Arthur. Mmm…"

"You are very welcome, darling," I say, watching her as she bites into her cupcake. "No spraining your ankle this time, though."

"Right. I think I have enough to worry about right now," she chuckles. "This is the best medicine. And you, of course."

"I'm second best to a cupcake," I moan, my hand to my chest dramatically.

"Never," she says. "Cupcakes don't stay around very long."

I don't say anything. I will myself to smile at her.

Cupcakes finished, plates cleaned and put away, I join Guinevere on the couch again. She sits between my legs, leaning against my chest.

"Oh, no, Arthur, tomorrow is the 27th!" she exclaims suddenly. "You're not missing important stuff because of me, are you?" She carefully turns and looks up at me.

"No, everything is well in-hand. I have remarkably little to do with the actual ceremony. I don't even get one of those gold shovels," I say.

"Really? That's disappointing."

"Well, I just designed it. My part is done, basically."

"Who gets the gold shovels?"

"Mayor Godwin, of course. Some bloke from the bank. Annis Carlin, because she's been championing this project from the beginning. And, what's his name… Tristan Richards. This whole thing is his baby. He and his wife, Isolde. They're going to be running the place once it opens."

"Oh, I think I've heard of them. Philanthropists or something, right?"

"Yeah. Nice couple, actually. Very down-to-earth."

"I have to miss it now," she says softly, disappointed.

"I know," I say, kissing her forehead. "I'm sorry. It'll be on telly, on the local station," I say.

"Not the same thing."

"Are you pouting, Guinevere?" I ask. This I have to see.

"Yes."

I lean around, trying to see her face. She looks like an adorable little girl.

Just like…

"You are incredibly cute when you pout," I say, smiling fondly at her.

"Stop it."

"But you are," I say, gently turning her, tipping her face up. "You're very cute… but it also makes me want to…" I lean closer, "take this pouty bottom lip, and…"

I close my lips over hers, sucking her lower lip softly into my mouth, sliding my tongue across it.

She groans softly and parts her lips, and we spend a few minutes just softly kissing, reacquainting ourselves with each other's mouths, remembering how good they feel together.

"I've missed your lips," I murmur between kisses.

"Missed yours, too," she says.

I pull gently away. "We need to be careful," I say, exhaling.

"Yeah," she agrees, blushing slightly. "Bollocks for timing, hey?"

I laugh. "Next time you have a superfluous organ that decides it wants out, tell it to make an appointment first," I say.

"Ha," she laughs. "Doesn't quite work that way, but I will take it under advisement."

xXx

"It'll be fine, Arthur," she says. "You won't hurt me."

"You don't know that," I say, standing stubbornly in the pajama bottoms she bought me, arms crossed over my chest. "We're both used to sleeping alone, Guinevere. What if I roll over and elbow you or something?"

"We can put pillows between us."

"Well, if there are pillows between us, I may as well sleep on the couch anyway. Just like I'm already going to do."

She sighs, sitting in her bed, over to one side, trying to entice me to join her.

It's tempting. Very tempting, but no. "Tempting" is the very reason why I am standing in the doorway of her room.

"Guinevere," I say, dropping my hands. "You know I _want_ to. Sleeping with you in my arms Friday and Saturday night was the best. It's how I always want to sleep, to be completely honest. But your wound is still too new. I can't risk it."

"I know. Logically, I know you're right." She looks up at me. "Compromise?"

"I'm listening."

"You come over here and hold me for a while. Maybe till I fall asleep. I'm pretty tired. Then you can go sleep on the bloody couch."

"Okay," I acquiesce, walking over. "But I stay above the covers."

"Fair enough," she says, sliding down into the bed.

I lie down behind her, wrapping my arm around her, spooning her carefully and as best I can from my place above the blankets.

"This good?" I ask.

"Mmm-hmm," she says.

"Goodnight, Guinevere," I say, lifting my head a moment to kiss her cheek.

"Goodnight. Sweet dreams, Arthur," she says softly. She'll be asleep in no time.

I _will_ leave when she's asleep. I have to. I can't stay here. Parts of me are refusing to understand what is going on, why there are all these clothes on and blankets between us.

Part of me will just have to deal for a week.

Her breathing slows and deepens, and I feel her relax in my arms. It's like my body is attuned to hers; it knows her rhythms, her idiosyncrasies. I linger a few minutes longer, until I know she is fully asleep so I don't disturb her when I leave.

Her hair tickles my throat. I don't care. I like it, actually. She snores lightly. I think it's cute.

Finally, I peel myself away from her, kissing her temple one last time with a final whisper of goodnight.

I close her door most of the way and pad back out to the living room, where I've already got the couch made up.

That's what started our little debate in the first place: I asked for spare sheets and a blanket.

It's not very late, so I watch telly for a while from my makeshift bed. I try sleeping in these trousers, but I get hot inside of ten minutes and wind up stripping down to my pants like usual.

Not like I have anything she hasn't seen anyway.

Physically speaking.

I sigh. It's been slowly creeping up on me, how disappointed I am that I didn't get to tell her on Sunday. I've been ignoring it because her health is more important right now. She needs to get better, and I intend to see to that.

But once she's better, I _must_ tell her.

We're running out of time. She needs to know what's coming in two weeks.

I know I'm not going to be able to break up with her. I just will not be able to do it. I can't. I've gone through my list of break up lines, and none of them will work. She wouldn't believe a single one of them.

So, the truth.

Two weeks.

I have two weeks left to be happy.

Two weeks left of her arms, her kisses, her light, her love.

It's just not enough.

A lifetime isn't enough.


	47. Day 46

Wednesday. Work. I'm pretty stiff from sleeping on Guinevere's couch, but I keep it to myself until I'm in my office. Then I close my door and lay on the floor for a few minutes, willing the kinks out of my back.

Guinevere was feeling better this morning. She seemed brighter, more herself. She took a shower (I insisted she do this while I was still there, just in case) and we ate breakfast at the table instead of on the couch.

I still remind her to behave herself and not overdo while I'm gone when I kiss her goodbye. She just rolls her eyes at me.

There's a knock at my door while I'm on the floor. "Yes?"

"Arthur?"

It's Leon.

"Come in," I call. I stay where I am.

"Hey, I—oh!" he exclaims, walking in and pulling up short at the sight of me sprawled on the floor. "You all right, mate?"

"Getting there," I say. "Close the door."

He does. "Rough night?"

"Slept on Guinevere's couch," I say.

"Didn't trust yourself in her bed?" he says, the insinuation plain in his voice.

"Mostly I didn't want to accidentally bump into her wound," I say. "But I don't know if I can take another night on her couch. I know she'll tell me that I can go home and sleep in my own bed, but…"

" _But_ if it's a choice between your lonely condo and Gwen's couch, you'll take Gwen's couch because it's nearer to Gwen," he says, grinning at me.

"Something like that," I say. "Help me up."

He holds his hand down and pulls me to my feet. I groan.

"Here," he says, turning me around so my back is to him. "Cross your arms in front of your chest." I do; then he wraps his arms around me.

"What are you doing back there?" I say.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to violate you," he says, laughing. "You know you're not my type. Now relax or this won't work."

"Okay," I say. He grabs me in a bear hug and lifts me. Then he leans back suddenly and sort of bends me backwards over him. There is a very satisfying series of crunching noises as my spine cracks in at least seven places.

"Oh," I grunt, and he sets me down. "Holy hell, you're stronger than you look, mate."

"Feel better?"

I move around a bit. "Yeah, thanks."

"You're welcome. Now come on, we need to get down there."

"Already?"

"You want good parking, don't you?"

"I'll drive," I say.

xXx

_G: Have fun._

She sends me a text as we are walking from my car to the building site. There's a podium on a makeshift stage at one end with a large version of my drawing on an easel beside it.

_A: Thanks. These things are actually pretty boring._

_G: Is that why you wanted me to come?_

_A: Yes. You would keep the boredom away._

_G: Sorry._

_A: Stop apologizing. Are you resting?_

_G: No, I decided to repaint the living room. Of course I'm resting._

_A: Sorry. I hated leaving you this morning._

_G: I know. Shouldn't you be schmoozing or glad-handing or brown-nosing or something?_

_A: Only the first one._

My father strides towards us, so I stash my mobile.

"Checking on Guinevere?" he asks.

"Yes. She's doing very well."

"Well, with the amount of time you've been spending over there, she should be," he says.

"Oh, so first you're wondering if I'm going to be done with her in two months and now I'm spending too much time with her?" I ask. "Perhaps you could write me instructions on how I'm _supposed_ to conduct myself."

Okay, a little harsh, yes, a bit of an overreaction, I admit.

This curse has me on edge.

"Lower your voice," he hisses at me, smiling falsely at some acquaintance over my shoulder. I wasn't even close to shouting, but he is always ridiculously cognizant of appearances. I notice then that Leon has made himself scarce. "What on earth is your problem?"

"Nothing, I'm fine. I slept on a sofa last night. I didn't mean to snap." Unfortunately, he doesn't realize how sensitive a topic this is for me.

"You slept on a sofa?"

"Guinevere's. I stayed at her place."

"Why didn't you sleep in her bed?" he asks, with shocking casualness.

"She had surgery on Sunday, Father. I didn't want to accidentally bump into her wound."

"They didn't do it arthroscopically?"

"They did, but she still has stitches on the little cuts," I say.

"Ah. Well, then. It's actually rather good of you to look after her. But hasn't she got any family?"

"No, they're all dead, remember?"

"I knew her brother was gone," he says. "Her parents are gone as well?"

"Yes. Her mother when she was young and her father when she was 21, I think," I say.

"Shame," he says, glancing at his watch. "Come. Let's find a seat."

We walk over and see that Leon has seats saved for us in the front row.

It's dreadfully boring. The speakers aren't interesting. My father and I stand and wave when bidden, but that's all the recognition we get.

I notice the bloke next to me has fallen asleep. I pull my mobile out, surreptitiously take a picture of him, and send it to Guinevere.

_A: See all the fun you're missing?_

_G: LOL. I am watching on telly. It's thrilling. Is he snoring?_

_A: Not yet. I should nudge him or something._

_G: Don't. He might shout out if you do!_

_A: Oh, God, good point._

_G: I like that they mentioned the naming of the gym._

_A: Me, too. I wasn't sure if they would._

Finally it gets to the big moment with the ceremonial gold shovels. I actually do want to take a few photos of this, since it is my first building. The Mayor, the bank man, Annis, Tristan, and Isolde all stand with their shovels, waiting for the word.

They dig their shovels into the ground. Then they stand and stand and stand while everyone takes photos of them. Their smiles start getting stiff and they start looking like their faces are hurting. I'm sure their backs are not feeling too fabulous at this point, either, bent over those shovels like that.

"Finally!" Annis breathes when they're allowed to stop. I laugh. She hears me and waves at me.

Father, Leon, and I mingle and circulate, chatting with people and collecting praise over my design.

Once the speeches are done, it's not a bad party.

I only wish Guinevere were here to share this with me.

xXx

I knock off work early. Father wasn't surprised. Leon basically pushed me out the door.

I saw something on that food channel last night that actually looked achievable by someone of my meager talents, and I wrote it down. I send Guinevere a text saying that I'll be over in a short while and that I'll bring dinner.

I stop home, change, and re-pack for tomorrow. I don't know for certain if I'm going to stay over tonight, but I'd like to. Maybe I'll allow myself to sleep in her bed.

Maybe.

I cruise through the market with my list. Surprisingly, I only need a few things. Some chicken (I get some already cooked from the ready-made meal area to save time), a bag of that shredded cabbage stuff, green onions, some flour tortillas, peanuts, sesame oil, and a lime.

Wait, what's this? I put the lime down and see little plastic limes filled with juice already squeezed out of them. I take one of those instead.

I look at my list. I'm fairly certain she has soy sauce. But the last one, I don't know. She probably does…

Shit.

_A: I have a question, but don't ask me why I'm asking._

_G: Okay…_

_A: Do you have basil?_

_G: Basil who?_

Funny.

_A: Ha ha. Not Basil, basil. The herb._

_G: Of course I do._

_A: Thank you._

_G: Arthur Pendragon, are you going to cook me dinner?_

_A: This message will self-destruct in 30 seconds._

I put my mobile away and head to the checkout queues.

I start second-guessing my decision to cook dinner for her while I drive home. I begin to think that something that looked simple at 10:30 last night while I was settling down to sleep might transform into a culinary disaster at 6:00 tonight.

But it's too late to turn back now. I pull my car behind her building in the space that I now think of as mine, and grab my things.

She had me take her keys again today, so I let myself in and head upstairs.

"Honey, I'm home," I call. Couldn't help myself.

She laughs and looks up at me from the couch. "You _are_ cooking me dinner," she says, eyeing my bags from the Food Palace.

"Yes, I am. I also reserve the right to order us pizza if it turns into a bloody disaster," I say, setting the grocery bags in her kitchen before coming over to kiss her hello.

"You're staying over again?" she asks, noticing that I have my garment bag again. I wish I could use my smaller duffel bag, but my business wardrobe is not really conducive to stuffing into a duffel.

"Is that all right?" I ask.

"Of course it's all right. Especially if you eschew the sofa and come and sleep in the bed so you don't wake up all stiff and sore again," she says.

"I wasn't stiff," I say.

"Liar," she shoots at me. "You were trying to hide it, but you were hurting."

"You know me too well," I say, kissing her again.

She knows me too well, yet not well enough. Yet.

"Can I help?" she asks.

"No," I say. "I may occasionally ask you where something is, but apart from that, you keep your cute bum on the couch."

She laughs.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, talking from the kitchen. It's not far, so I don't really have to yell.

"Pretty good. Took a little nap after the groundbreaking was done. Had a salad for lunch. Called Sefa."

"I trust she has everything in hand?" I ask. I'm working on taking the chicken meat off the bones.

"Yes. She said she'd bring up my mail."

"Oh, I could have stopped and collected it before I came up here," I say, frowning.

"It's all right. She said she wants to see how I'm faring under your care," she says, chuckling.

"And how _are_ you faring under my care?" I ask, peeking out at her.

"Very well, thank you," she grins at me.

"My pleasure," I say, grinning back at her.

I start cutting up the chicken into small pieces. It kind of falls apart on its own, so it's pretty easy.

I look at my notes. Okay. I can do this. "Where's that basil, now?" I ask.

"Spice rack on the counter," she calls back.

Of course it is. I find it and then I look for her soy sauce. I open a few cupboards and find it pretty quickly.

Oh. She already has sesame oil. I didn't need to buy any. Well, I guess I'll take it home with me. If this turns out, maybe I'll want to make it for myself.

Like when I'm lonely and miserable and needing to only look after myself.

"Everything all right in there? It's awfully quiet?" she calls.

I think this is driving her crazy, not knowing what I'm doing.

"Just fine, thank you," I call back.

Pan. Oil. Shredded cabbage. I look at the bag. I had never bought this stuff before last month, and now I'm about to use it for the third time in a third way.

I open the bag and measure out what I need, tucking the rest in her fridge.

Cabbage.

_That's not a cabbage inside your skull, you know. Stop acting like it is._

Merlin's text. He told me to stop using my curse as a crutch.

He's completely right, of course. It's my excuse to be miserable; it's my scapegoat when things go badly for me.

I thought I was in control of it these last two years, but really I was letting it control me.

Until Guinevere. She's in control now.

No, that's not quite accurate, though I don't think I would mind. She's not in total control. I'm still driving this car, but she's navigating it. Co-pilot.

Okay, Merlin, I get it.

Sefa knocks while I am chopping green onions and adding them to the cabbage in the pan.

I hear Guinevere bid her enter, followed by the soft sound of the two of them chatting in the living room, mostly about the shop. Apparently there was a customer looking to have something designed, but he was happy to wait until Monday, even leaving a business card behind with instructions to call him if he didn't return. Good for him. He won't be disappointed.

Sefa comes investigating, smiling at my clumsy attempts to cook. She looks at my notes. "This looks really good," she says. "Healthy, too."

"Think she'll like it?" I ask.

"Yes. In fact, I wouldn't mind having this recipe myself. Percival is very careful about what he eats, and I think this is something he would eat," she says.

"I'll make a copy for you," I say.

"Thank you," she says. She looks at me curiously for a moment. "Something has changed," she says.

"Yes, I think it has," I say, smiling.

She carefully touches my chest, right over my heart. It's not a flirtatious or inappropriate gesture at all.

"It's still there, the… sadness. But there's something else there as well, now." She looks up at me, her eyes focusing again. "Hope?"

"That may be it, indeed," I say.

She lifts her hand from my chest suddenly, as if she's just realized that it was there. "Oh."

"It's all right," I say. "Tell Percival hello for me, all right?"

"Of course I will. You are taking good care of her, Arthur. Thank you."

"Thank _you_ for keeping her business running while she's out."

She leaves the kitchen and says her goodbyes to Guinevere.

I'm almost done. This thing takes no time at all.

"Are you hungry already? This didn't take as long as I thought it would," I call.

"We can eat whenever it's ready," she answers. "It smells good."

I set the table and bring the pan over with the pack of tortillas. "What would you like to drink?" I ask.

"I have something. Can I come now?"

"Yes," I answer. I bought myself some bottles of beer while I was at the market, and open one up.

She sees it in my hand and snorts a laugh.

"What?"

"You must have just bought those today," she says.

"Yep."

"Ooo, what's this now?" she asks, sitting and inspecting the pan.

"Thai chicken wraps," I say, handing her a tortilla. "I think they're only sort of vaguely Thai, though…"

"It looks really good. You're becoming king of the pre-shredded cabbage," she laughs.

"I know, who would have thought?" I laugh with her. "Go on," I prompt.

"Did you taste it?" she asks, spooning some in a little oval pile in the center of her tortilla.

"I snuck a bite or two, yes," I say.

"Good. You need to taste things to make sure they're not rubbish," she says, handing me the spoon.

"Oh, okay. I thought you were going to pick on me for having done so," I say.

"No," she says. I watch while she takes a bite. She makes a face. "Ugh."

My face falls.

She starts giggling at me. "Sorry, I couldn't help myself. It's really good, Arthur."

"Really?"

"Really. I'm very impressed." She smiles at me and leans over, kissing me.

"Mmm, definitely going to have to learn how to cook if this is the reaction I get," I say, sneaking one more kiss.

xXx

I just cannot take another night on her couch. I need to sleep in a proper bed.

She's just changed into her pajamas, and I saunter into her bedroom. I have my pajama bottoms on but no shirt.

"Hey," I say softly. She turns around, fingers pausing mid-braid while she stares shamelessly at me.

"Hi," she answers finally, just an exhaled breath. Apparently she is as distracted by me as I am by her.

"I can't sleep on your couch again." I take a step into her room.

"I thought not," she says, twisting the elastic around the end of her hair.

"Can I…"

"Of course you can."

"No, not that," I say. She gets a confused look on her face. "I was going to ask if I can see your little poke-holes where they did the surgery. Want to see how they're healing," I explain.

"Oh," she says. "You can do that, too. Turn on the big light."

I flip the switch beside the door and she lies down on the bed, waiting for her inspection.

I walk over, suddenly realizing that this might be a bad idea.

"Um," I say, my hand hesitating over her hip.

"You want me to?" she asks quietly.

"Please," I say. "If I start moving your clothes out of the way, there's no telling where I'll stop."

She giggles and moves her shirt up a little and her pajama bottoms down a little.

I kneel down and look at the three small incisions, each with only two or three stitches. They look quite healthy and appear to be healing nicely.

I give in to my urge and press my lips softly to her skin, just once, carefully, and well away from the incisions.

She gasps softly. I move away quickly. "Sorry," I mutter. I clear my throat. "Um, you're lucky. I got the big scar," I say, pointing to the faint three-inch line on my lower right side.

"I noticed that on Friday," she says. "Well, actually I noticed it when you took your shirt off at your condo when you got soy sauce on it," she admits, giggling.

"Wow, you really were staring," I laugh. I need to pee. "I'll be right back," I say.

"I'll be right here," she says.

When I return, she's moved over to make room for me. "I can't sleep in these," I say, hooking my thumbs into the waist of my trousers. "I'll leave my boxers on, obviously, but I'll roast if I leave these on."

"Okay," she says.

I shuck the trousers and slide into bed beside her. "Are you tired?" I ask, curling around her.

"Mmm-hmm," she answers. "You can watch telly, though. I can sleep with it on. Sometimes I wake up and find that it's been on all night."

"Silly," I say, kissing her head and turning the volume down and flipping through the channels until I find something tolerable to watch.

She drifts off almost immediately, a small smile on her face.

Did I put that smile there? I hope so.

This feels good, her in my arms like this. It feels right. I squeeze my eyes closed.

I wish there was a way to capture moments for later. Like taking a photo with my heart. Then I could flip to this moment, along with countless other moments with her, moments where I feel happy and warm and… normal.

Moments where I believed we had a chance.

Maybe we do. Sefa said that she thought there was hope in my heart. I did figure out one of Merlin's riddles.

I'm certain now that telling her the truth is a piece of the puzzle. It has to be. Why else would I have felt so much better last Sunday when I made the decision to do so?

Now it just comes down to when. When do I drop this giant bombshell on my sweet Guinevere?

Soon. As soon as she's well enough.

My arms tighten around her automatically. I lean my head down, smelling her hair.

I'll tell her and whatever happens, happens. If she leaves me, it will kill me, but it probably won't feel any worse than it will on Day 60.

If she leaves me, she'll take my heart right along with her.

If she sticks it out with me until Day 60, she'll still take my heart with her when we part ways.

It's not mine anymore anyway.

It belongs to her.


	48. Day 47

_A: You still want Mexican food?_

_G: Dear God, yes._

I'm on my way home from work. I've made my daily stop at home to collect my mail, change clothes, and pack for the next day.

I probably could pack for the weekend and she wouldn't mind.

I also do need to do some laundry at some point. Things are piling up.

Last weekend I gained my own toothbrush at Guinevere's apartment, so I haven't had to worry about that. She had a few spares, free ones from trips to the dentist that she didn't use when she had decided to use one of those electric spin-brush things (which she eventually decided she didn't like).

So I have a toothbrush at Guinevere's now. She even found a red one for me.

_A: I'll stop at El Camino. What would you like?_

_G: They have this seafood burrito that I like._

_A: Is it the only one on the menu?_

I get confused sometimes with Mexican food. So many different combinations of very similar ingredients start making my eyes cross when I read the menu. I don't want to bring her the wrong thing.

_G: Yes._

_A: Anything else?_

_G: No refried beans._

_A: Got it._

I get our dinners and bring them up (I have her keys again).

"Hey," I say. "How are you feeling today?"

"Better. Things are starting to itch, though," she says, making a face.

"That means it's healing," I say. "It's a right pain in the arse, though. I remember that."

She laughs. "And you were, what, 12? Probably scratched like a flea-bitten cat, didn't you?"

"You got that right," I say, laughing, unpacking our food to the table.

"How was work?" she asks.

"Eh. Fine. I went past the building site today. They've got a nice big hole dug. Maybe I'll take you out there this weekend so you can see it," I say.

"I'd love that," she says, smiling. "What did you get to eat?"

"Steak tacos," I say. She digs into her burrito. "Did I get the right one?"

"Mmm, yes," she says. "This is _so_ what I wanted, thank you, darling."

"You're welcome. What did you do today?"

"I talked with Mithian on Skype for a bit. She had a day off, so she sent me a text that she was available if I was – ha, like I have a choice – and so we talked for a while. It was really nice. She's very impressed at how well you're taking care of me."

"Well, tell her thank you for me," I say.

"Um, Arthur…"

"Hmm?"

"I think I might like to try working tomorrow. Not the whole day, just part of it," she says, looking hopefully at me.

"If you feel up to it, then go ahead," I say.

"Oh," she says, surprised. "I was expecting more resistance."

"You don't need my permission," I say. "I appreciate you wanting to talk to me about it, but it's your body and as long as you listen to what it tells you, then you'll be fine."

"I suppose that's true," she says, chuckling. "I promise I won't go down there unless I feel good and will come back up if I start to feel tired or sore."

"Thank you. And I promise I won't keep texting and calling to make sure you feel okay."

"Deal," she says.

I'm not sure how I feel about the fact that she felt she needed to run going to work tomorrow past me. I'm not in charge of her. She's a grown woman and if she thinks she'll be up to working tomorrow, then so be it.

On the other hand, I'm touched that she wanted my blessing. It would actually make sense if we were in a normal relationship.

But that's the thing: she thinks we're in a normal relationship. She thinks everything is swimming along fine. We've gone to the next level of intimacy. I'm looking after her while she's ailing. I've even done her laundry.

"Hey," she says, touching my hand.

And she also knows that there's something troubling me that I'm keeping from her.

"Hi, I'm here," I say. "I was just… a little surprised that you wanted to ask me about going to work tomorrow. That's what I was thinking about, actually."

"Why does that surprise you?" she asks, angling her head at me.

"Because I'm not the boss of you," I say, a slow smile spreading across my face.

She giggles. "No, you're not the boss of me any more than I am the boss of you," she says.

Darling, you can boss me around all you want. I wouldn't mind a bit.

"I like to think that we're at least approaching some sort of… equal partnership," she says, her voice going soft towards the end.

"Me, too," I say. I'm not lying. I do like to think that. I like to think that very much.

There's just one small issue (okay, maybe not so small) that I need to sort out in order for that to happen. If I can figure out what to do.

She smiles at me, and we take a moment to gaze at each other across the table. My phone beeps in the other room, breaking the spell. I ignore it for now.

"Do you need to go check that?" she asks softly.

"It'll hold," I say. "You're done, aren't you?" I smirk at her. She's got half of her burrito left.

"Yeah, I'm full," she says. "You can try a bite if you like, but I warn you, it's pretty spicy."

It doesn't look spicy. The sauce with the seafood in it is white. "I'll give it a try," I say, reaching my fork over to her plate.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," she says, sitting back in her chair.

"Wow, this is really good," I say. Then it sneaks up on me. "Whoa. Sneaky bastard." I reach for her glass, since she has water. Beer will do me no good here.

She laughs. "It looks so unassuming, I know. But I believe it is a _chipotle_ cream sauce. See the tiny red flecks?"

I look closely. "Oh, yeah, there they are. It's still really good."

"It's my favorite thing there."

We clean up dinner and move to the couch, where we sit cuddled together just watching telly. We don't talk much, but we really don't need to. I think we're both just enjoying the closeness, the level of comfortable intimacy we've built.

She doesn't bust me for drifting away because I _don't_ drift away. I'm quiet, but I'm not absent. She's quiet, too. I wonder if she's thinking about our short but meaningful conversation at dinner.

The text that snapped us back to reality was from Leon. He and Gwaine wanted to know if Guinevere was up for a dinner out with them tomorrow night. We decided to thank them but take a rain check.

She starts nodding off in my arms, which I love, but we can't sleep here on the couch. I know this from experience. So I gently rouse her and we move to her bed where she repeats last night's behavior, falling asleep curled in front of me while I watch TV. Tonight, I watch football.

I watch football and mentally check off the things that will be too painful to do after Day 60 if I don't figure out this problem.

Things connected to sweet memories, things that will forever make me think of my Guinevere and the best 60 days of my life. Sweet memories turned bittersweet; things I will want to cling to despite the pain in my heart.

Mini golf and go-karts. Hell, the entire Citadel Fun Centre.

The movie _Thunderhawk._

Bowling.

Jousting. That one is going to be extra difficult, I think, considering one of my best friends is a professional jouster. If he'll even continue being my friend, that is.

Even stupid Cornettos.

Chocolate salted caramel cupcakes. Salted caramel in general. It will always be permanently linked to my Guinevere, her personality, her looks. Her taste. I lean over and kiss her sleeping cheek, warm and soft.

My pajama bottoms with the Dragons logo all over. She gave them to me. I have a feeling that they will become my security blanket.

I sigh and hold her closer. She makes a soft, contented noise.

The Food Palace. I may have to switch to Empire Foods. It's farther away and more expensive, but I don't know if I would be able to step foot in it again.

Pad Thai. I'll either eat it as often as possible or forswear it forever, never touching it again, knowing it can never measure up to that night.

This is much too hard. Time is mocking me now, going faster. It's affecting other parts of my life, it's distracting me so much.

I cannot even begin to think of things from Guinevere's perspective. At least I know what's coming, if I can't find my way out. She's going to be blindsided.

But that's why I need to tell her. So she won't be.

That doesn't mean that she won't have her own set of bittersweet memories as well, though. And that breaks my heart further.

I need to figure this out. I need to think about the things that Merlin has told me. Morgana, too, actually.

I have to stop wavering between helplessness and hopefulness.

Strive for hopefulness. I owe it to Guinevere to do everything I can to get out of this.

I owe it to myself, too. I think I do.

I hope I do.

But Guinevere deserves it.

She is worth it.


	49. Day 48

_A: It's Friday. I'm bringing lunch over. What would you like?_

_G: Fish and chips._

_A: Be there in a bit._

Guinevere told me that she was going to go down to the shop after lunch. So I've decided we can still have our Friday lunch. We'll just have it at her flat.

I love how she usually knows what she wants. None of that irritating, "Oh, whatever you want is fine with me," or "I don't know," that always leads to my suggestions being shot down. I ask her, she tells me. It's great.

I show up with fish and chips shortly after 12:30, and she's up and dressed and pretty much looking like she feels fine. She's got a purple v-neck tee and jeans on, and her hair is in two braids, the kind that start up high on her head.

"You look healthy," I say, smiling at her as I kiss her hello.

"That's an interesting compliment," she says, laughing.

"What I mean is—"

"I know what you mean," she says. "It just struck me kind of funny, that's all."

"All ready for work this afternoon?" I say, taking off my jacket and sitting at her small dining table.

"Yes. I thought about going down already, but I decided I could wait until after lunch. No need to push myself. Sefa said that things are running smoothly. There are a few repair jobs and the one order I was working on is languishing, but Sefa said that once she explained to the customer that I had an emergency appendectomy, she was fine with waiting. So that will probably be what I mainly work on. Unless the repairs are really easy. Then I might bang those out quickly first."

"Do you do a lot of repair work?" I ask.

"Some. Mostly on other people's pieces, though," she says, smirking.

I laugh. "So, you'll fix things that other jewelers have made? That's nice of you."

"It's good business," she says, shrugging. "If I fix something even though I didn't make it, I might earn a new customer. They may decide to buy from me instead next time, you know?"

"Right," I say. "That does make sense."

"It also lets me see what the competition is doing," she adds with another smirk that makes me laugh again. "The best, though, are the antique pieces. You know, someone's Gran dies and they get the family heirloom ring or something. They need it sized, or repaired, or even just cleaned. I get a lot of new design ideas from really old pieces."

"I bet that is pretty cool. Ever get anything enchanted?"

"Once or twice. Sefa always heads those off, though. She directs them to the appropriate place to take care of those issues."

"She's handy to have around in more ways than one, it seems," I say.

"Sefa is great," Guinevere agrees. "I'm glad you like her."

"I do. She's a nice person and a good friend to you."

We eat quietly for a bit. I tell her about my day, about how the rec center is going. I'm starting a new design for a school addition now, and I tell her some about that.

"Guinevere," I say once I've finished. "I, um, well, there are things piling up at my house that need tending to. So I might go home tonight, if you don't mind."

"Oh, that's fine," she says lightly, but I can see she's trying to hide her disappointment. I think she's gotten as accustomed to my constant company as I have to hers.

"I'd rather be here with you, but, well, I've got two weeks' worth of laundry piling up now, and…"

"You didn't do your laundry when you did mine?" she asks.

"I didn't have time. Yours was more important."

"Oh," she says softly. I think she's still touched that I did her laundry at all.

"And I have bills that need paying, too. I was thinking that I'd take your laundry again and do it with mine, though," I say.

"You're not doing my laundry again!" she protests. "I mean, you did an excellent job, but you don't need to do my laundry," she explains.

"It's no trouble," I say.

"I can do my own."

I cock my head at her. "Um, Guinevere, how are you going to carry it? You're not supposed to do any heavy lifting for two weeks."

"It can wait until I can lift it."

Boy, she's stubborn. "Okay, how about this: I'll come over after work and collect your laundry _and_ you. You can come to my place tonight and we can have a lovely romantic evening of doing the wash."

She smiles, then laughs. "You do know how to sweep a girl off her feet. Okay, I can handle my laundry being done at your place if I'm there to help. I could do with a change of scenery, anyway," she says, looking around.

"All right, then." I nod decisively. I really didn't want to go home all by myself anyway.

If we only have 12 more days, I want to spend as much time as possible with her.

I'm beginning to feel like there's a big hourglass over my head and I'm watching the sand drain from the top half to the bottom half, feeling helpless as I struggle to solve the puzzle before all the sand has run through.

It's almost like some sort of demented game show.

We finish eating and chat for a bit longer before I reluctantly get ready to return to work.

I pull her to me carefully, wrapping my arms around her. "Have a good afternoon. Behave yourself," I say, bending down to kiss her nose. I reach one hand up and tug one of her braids gently. "I like your hair like this, by the way. It's very cute."

"Thank you," she says. "I was bored, so I decided on two French braids instead of one, just to take up more time. And of course I'll behave myself."

Ah. French braids. That's what they're called.

"I'll pick you up at 5:15."

"I'll be ready, with my laundry basket waiting," she says.

"It had better be sitting right where it is now when I get here," I warn. "Don't you move it."

"Yes, Mum," she says, smiling up at me. I can't resist any more and I bend down to kiss her.

xXx

Guinevere is waiting with a small pan of lasagna when I pick her up.

"When did you make this?" I ask, kissing her hello. It's not cooked yet, just in a pan covered in foil.

"This morning. I was going to cook it for us here tonight, but it will travel," she says. I give her a kiss and go get her hamper.

She's put all her towels in along with her clothes. I realize that I didn't wash them last weekend. Whoops.

"Sorry I didn't wash your towels Monday," I say, walking out with the hamper. She tosses her overnight bag on the top of her laundry and opens the door for me, lasagna pan in one hand.

"What you did was more than enough, Arthur. You don't know how much I appreciate you taking care of all that for me," she says, locking the door and walking down the stairs. I follow, walking awkwardly with my load.

We drive to my condo and the first thing Guinevere does when she gets inside is turn on the oven.

"Better check inside, there might be pans in there. I have no idea, honestly. I don't remember the last time I used the oven. If I ever have," I call, dropping her basket near my laundry room before taking her bag to my room.

I wonder if she brought one of her extra toothbrushes to keep here.

I quickly change into some jeans and a t-shirt while she putters in my kitchen.

"It's clear," she calls, laughing. "Oh, in my bag is a loaf of bread, would you bring it out, please?"

"You have a loaf of bread in your bag?" I ask, opening her bag. Sure enough, there it is.

"Seemed like an easy way to carry it," she says, meeting me halfway between the kitchen and my room and taking it from me with a kiss.

"Hey, come back here," I say, grabbing her hand before she can escape. I want another kiss. I wrap my arm around her waist and capture her lips with mine, coaxing them apart, sliding my tongue against hers, taking my time to enjoy the soft sweetness of her mouth.

I release her lips gently, needing air. Needing to stop. It hasn't been a week yet, but the man inside my pants doesn't know that.

"Whoa," she exhales.

"Yeah… maybe that wasn't the best idea," I say, chuckling. She's even harder to resist now than she was before.

"I needed that, though," she admits, giggling. "It's been far too long since we've had a proper snog."

I loosen my arms to let her finish taking the bread to the kitchen. I follow, though, since the laundry is that way as well. "Well, the day you came home we had a small one."

"Small. Just a tease," she says. "Would you like me to make garlic bread out of this or would you like it just plain? Wait, do you have garlic powder or garlic salt?"

"Better have just plain," I say, answering both questions at once. She laughs. I start sorting laundry, throwing her things in with mine, keeping the light colors together and the dark colors together. The towels will be their own load.

"Wow, he even sorts," she says, coming over. "I am impressed."

"Hey, I know what I'm doing here. All it takes is one unintentionally pink shirt, you know."

She laughs and I toss a pair of my boxers in the washer right after a pair of her panties. "Think they'll behave themselves in there?" she asks, peeking in at our commingled clothing.

"Well, if we pull them out of the dryer and baby clothes have mysteriously appeared, then we'll have our answer," I say.

"Silly," she giggles and goes to put the lasagna in the oven.

Laundry has never been so enjoyable. I go grab my towels from my bathroom to wash as well. We watch telly and chat while we wait for dinner and for the first load to be done. She tells me how much she enjoyed being back at work. She managed to get a couple of the repairs done before making good headway on the other job, which is a pair of earrings.

The dryer finishes the first load at the same time as the lasagna finishes in the oven. I look at Guinevere.

"The lasagna needs to sit for a bit anyway," she says. "Otherwise it'll run all over your plate."

"I like it that way," I say, walking to the dryer. "But I suppose that will wait better than the clothes will. Those will just wrinkle."

xXx

Dinner is wonderful, as I would expect, and Guinevere is impressed with my laundry folding skills. She reminds me that I was going to pay some bills, and she changes into her pajamas while I do that.

It's like we're a normal couple, doing simple domestic tasks together. Simple tasks that pass more enjoyably because we're sharing the load. Because we're doing them together. A partnership.

I never realized how much fun could be had doing something so mundane. But I know it's the company making it so.

I never realized how much I long for simple domesticity. But only with my Guinevere.

"You should put your pajama bottoms on. Get comfy," she says, wandering out.

"They're in the washer," I say. "I really should get another pair or I'll wear them out too soon."

"Maybe we'll have to take care of that this weekend," she says. "I've been cooped up all week. I'd like to get out and do some things. Can we still go see the building site?"

"Of course we can. Anything you want," I say. "I just put the next load in the dryer, so we have some time to relax."

"Sounds good," she says, meeting me on the couch. We find something agreeable to watch (or possibly ignore) on the telly, and she nestles into my arms.

"I'm happy you're feeling better," I say, kissing her temple.

"Me too. But I'm getting tired, I think. Now that I'm finally sitting for a minute, it's catching up with me."

"Well, you don't have to do anything other than sit if you don't want to," I say. "The towels are in the washer, and then that's it."

"That was fast," she says.

"Not really. It just felt fast because we were doing it together. Though my machines are probably better than the ones at the launderette, so they might be faster."

"They _are_ faster," she declares.

"All right, then," I say, chuckling. I kiss her temple again, and she moves her head slightly. So I kiss her cheek. Then I lightly nip her ear. She smiles, and I cup her cheek with my hand, caressing her skin as I tilt her face to kiss her lips. She shifts, moving carefully, until she is lying on top of me, looking down at me a moment with an impish gleam in her eye.

"Don't start something we can't finish, Mr. Pendragon," she says.

"Just a few kisses," I say, lifting my head to kiss her. "Like this." I kiss her again. "And this." I kiss her neck, softly. "And this."

"Arthur…"

"Tell me to stop and I will," I mutter against her neck, still kissing, sucking a little, just touching my tongue to her skin to taste her.

"Oh, not fair…" she gasps, running her fingers into my hair as she moves to make it easier to reach her neck.

"Oh?" I ask, moving a little. "I haven't even gotten…" I place a soft, wet kiss directly on her favorite spot, "… _here_ yet."

"Oh…" she moans, and I keep kissing her neck, my hand sliding down her back to her bum.

I need her lips again, so I work my way north, heading back to them. She kisses me back ardently, having missed this as much as I have, contenting ourselves with what we can do right now.

Which, of course, isn't enough.

"Guinevere," I mutter her name, almost a whisper against her lips, and she sighs, her fingers sliding on my scalp, making it tingle.

She shifts her body atop mine slightly, pressing her thigh softly against my groin, and I press back with my hips, instinctively looking for contact, for something to ease the pressure building there.

I groan into her mouth and she clutches my hair, her other hand fisting my shirt at my side, bunching it until she finally gives up and slides her hand under my shirt, against my skin.

"Arthur," she gasps, "we need to stop…"

"Probably," I say, "but you just got to second base…"

She starts laughing then, dropping her head on my shoulder. She squeezes my pec once, then slides her hand back out of my shirt. By this time I'm laughing with her, and it's one of the best feelings ever, just laughing in a heap on the couch with her.

She falls asleep about 45 minutes later. We had untangled ourselves from each other and decided to forego the snogging for fear of the wrath of Dr. Emrys, and once she allowed herself to relax, she fell asleep.

So, I pick her up and carry her to bed again, only this time it's my bed. She hardly stirs, even when I have to shift her around a bit because my covers weren't turned back yet.

I kiss her forehead and whisper, "Good night," before heading back out just as the dryer buzzes.

I fold, alone now, alone with her clothes and my thoughts.

My thoughts are what tend to get me in trouble. I need to redirect that so I can get myself out of trouble.

I know the first thing I have to do.

She's feeling better.

That means I have to tell her. Tomorrow.

I don't know what she'll do or say, but I have to tell her.

I have to tell her, even if it means I'll be alone forever.

But alone forever after having even just 48 days with her is still better than a lifetime of empty relationships with other women.

Women who _aren't_ my Guinevere.


	50. Day 49

When I wake up, she's already up. She did go to sleep earlier than I did, after all, but I hate that I didn't get to wake up with her in my arms. I can just make out the sound of the telly in the living room, and I can tell she has the sound low. She's being as quiet as a church mouse because she doesn't want to disturb me.

I'm telling her today. That's all there is to it. It's eating at me. I need to tell her.

So, why am I hiding in my room?

Because I'm afraid. I honestly don't know what's going to happen.

The definition of insanity.

It's time to do something different.

I've been doing things differently with her, yes, but this is something so different that it's scary. This is something completely under my control to disclose or not.

And I don't know how she's going to react.

But I can't let that stop me. I cannot let my fear of the unknown continue to let me hide behind my curse and not fully open myself up to the woman I love.

First things first. Basic bodily functions.

I get up and pee. I see a new toothbrush in my toothbrush holder, and I smile a bittersweet smile. She did bring one. Then I pull on my (freshly-cleaned) pajama bottoms and a t-shirt.

I take a deep breath and open my bedroom door. She must have closed it when she got up this morning, because we left it open last night.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," she says, peeking over the back of the couch at me.

"Hey, I was up a lot later than you were," I say, smiling a little.

"The kettle is still pretty hot if you want some tea," she says.

"Maybe later," I say. I lean over and kiss her forehead, but then sit in my recliner instead of joining her on the couch. I can tell she's a little puzzled and disappointed, but I can't sit that close to her or I'll get distracted and lose my nerve.

"Did you sleep well?" she asks.

"Mmm-hmm," I say absently, just staring at her. She's so beautiful. Her hair is still in the two braids from yesterday, but they're coming loose in places, giving her a slightly frizzy halo effect that, were she aware of it, she would probably hate.

She looks well-rested and bright. The change of scenery was good for her, indeed.

She reaches for her teacup, regarding me a little self-consciously, I think. She takes a drink.

How can I break her heart like this?

"Arthur?" she asks finally, "where are you?"

"I… I need to tell you something, Guinevere," I say quietly. There. It's out. Sort of. What I mean is that there's no going back now.

She sets her cup down. "What is it?"

I take a deep breath. "I… I've wanted to tell you this for so long… and I almost did, twice now. I really wanted to, I promise you I did, but I was too scared. I didn't know what would happen. What you would say. I still don't know how you'll react, actually…" I trail off a moment, fidgeting in my seat. She's watching me expectantly.

She has no idea about what's going to come out of my mouth. I also realize that my palms are sweating and my stomach is clenched and I'm feeling cold and sweaty again because I do not, in fact, know how she's going to react, and it scares me a lot more than I want to admit.

She could leave me today. This morning. I rake my hand through my hair, my fingers catching on some tangles remaining from the night, and it pulls sharply against my scalp. That pain is almost comforting, because it's reliable. I know what causes it and how to make it stop.

This pain is scary and indefinable, because while I know what's causing it, I don't know how to make it stop. Yet.

Once this is out, it's all up to her. She's in control of the amount of pain I'm about to feel. I'm scared, but I have to trust her.

"Arthur?" she prompts softly.

"Sorry… this is… just… really scary for me," I say, wrapping my arms around my body, almost retreating into myself. I suddenly feel cold and sweaty again. "Um… where was I?"

"You wanted to tell me something but you didn't know how I would react," she says, her voice still soft, gentle. Almost soothing. She looks a little worried, but she's waiting with the patience of a saint.

I take a deep breath again. "Right… So, last Sunday morning when I went home I decided that I was going to tell you, that I _had_ to tell you, but then I got back to your flat and you were curled in a ball on the bathroom floor, all sick and helpless and of _course_ I couldn't do it then because getting you to hospital was more important, and so I kind of forgot about it because I was worried about you, _really_ worried, especially when the surgery took longer than I was expecting. Then this week, well, you were recovering and I had the groundbreaking, and…"

"Arthur," she finally interrupts. "I'm dying over here. Just tell me already, please, whatever it is!"

"I guess I was rambling, huh?"

"Yeah. A lot." She has her hands clasped tightly together in her lap now. She's nervous, but she's trying to hold it together because she can see that I'm quickly unraveling.

"I'm sorry. It's just that I've… I've never told anyone this before…" My leg is shaking nervously now. I think I need to throw up again.

"Okay," she prompts softly. She's as still as a statue.

I swallow and press on, looking at my feet. I just can't meet those brown eyes of hers right now. "I'm cursed." There. I've said it. I peek up at her without really lifting my head.

"Cursed?" Her eyebrows rise. I don't think that this is what she was expecting to hear at all. Her expression goes from shocked to confused as she struggles to process this new information. "What do you mean, cursed? Like, _cursed_ cursed, under an actual magical enchantment cursed?"

My eyes drop to my feet again. I'm wringing my hands absently in my lap, twisting my fingers together almost painfully. "Well, you know that my half-sister is a witch." I see her nod out of the corner of my eye. "I did something a few years back that I'm not proud of, and she's been punishing me ever since." I finally look up at her. "I can date a woman for 60 days. No more, no less. That's the curse."

"Two months and done," she whispers, staring off into the distance. Her inscrutable expression is like a knife in my heart. She's probably thinking of my father, his unthinking words that day. But I can't say for certain.

"Guinevere?" I ask, softly, unable to stand the silence any longer.

Her eyes flit back to mine, holding me in her gaze. "What did you do?"

I should have expected that question. "It's a little complicated. My half-sister, Morgana, had another half-sister by her mother. Her name was Morgause. She and I dated for a while." I tear my eyes away from her, the guilt and shame over my past too much to bear.

"For 60 days?" she guesses.

I nod. "I broke up with her out of sheer boredom. We had fun, but I never intended for anything long-term or permanent, and I should have never let it go on as long as it did. She was pretty and smart, but I was only marginally attracted to her. I only stayed with her that long because I was shallow and lazy and I didn't want to have to go to events by myself."

"Go on," she prompts, her voice still soft, but steady. Measured. She's gathering information before forming an opinion, I realize.

I sigh. I have never talked about Morgause since she died. "She felt differently. She was crushed when I broke up with her. It… it sounds terrible, I know; I sound like a total arse, but I told her it was over and she told me she loved me. I told her I didn't love her and that… I didn't even really like her all that much, either."

"That's pretty harsh, Arthur." Still that measured tone. She's disappointed in me. In my past. I can feel it.

"I know," I admit, still unable to look at her. "But that's who I was then, remember? I was a jerk." I lean back in the recliner and close my eyes. "That night she went home, took a fistful of sleeping pills, and… went to sleep."

Gwen gasps. "Oh, my…"

My eyes are still closed, pinched shut tight. I can see Morgause's face in my mind's eye, frozen in the shattered expression I so coldly walked away from that evening so long ago. "I couldn't even bring myself to go to her funeral," I whisper.

"I don't think I could have, either," she says, her voice a whisper now.

"After Morgause's ashes were scattered, Morgana came marching over to my house, a rare occurrence in itself as she prefers not to leave her cottage. She was mad. Really mad. She told me that since I could only give Morgause 60 days, that is all I would ever be able to give anyone. And I cannot be single, either. So that Sunday I met you…" I open my eyes and finally look at her.

She looks so sad. I don't know if her sadness is for me, Morgause, or both of us.

"You had just broken up with someone the day before," she says. "I'm a rebound girl…"

"All I've had for two years are rebound girls, Guinevere. Except I don't even have time to rebound."

I realize that she's taking this all very well. It worries me a little bit. I still don't know what she's going to do; she hasn't given anything away.

"So what day are we on, then?" she asks quietly.

"Day 49," I say. She doesn't look at all surprised that I am able to answer so readily.

"So we have…" she whispers, then stops, looking as if she cannot bear to say the words.

"Eleven days." I push the words out. They feel like a big marble in my throat.

"Less than two weeks," she says, her voice small, her eyes glassy as she looks at me, silently begging me to contradict her. To say I'm just kidding, that this is just some sick joke.

But I can't do that. It's all too real, unfortunately.

Hearing the remaining time from her lips feels like a boulder on my chest, pressing down, suffocating me. Now it feels like I'm trapped inside that giant hourglass. Instead of watching it drain away from the outside, I'm being buried by the sand that is falling much too quickly.

"I don't want to break up with you," I say. "I've never not wanted to break up with someone as much as I don't want to break up with you."

She stares at me. "I don't want you to break up with me," she whispers.

I just nod. "I know," I whisper. "I called Morgana two weeks ago. On Day 30. I asked her to lift the curse. She wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"I'm not exactly sure. She enjoys being cryptic, and she takes advantage of the fact that I can be a bit dim when it comes to my emotions." I run my hand through my hair again, frustrated with Morgana, this curse, and myself.

Guinevere goes quiet for a few moments, staring blankly at the telly. She sniffles and swipes at her face, and I realize she's crying.

I rise and cross to her, kneeling in front of her and taking her hands in mine.

"Don't," she says, but she doesn't pull away.

"I can't help it," I whisper. "I hate seeing you cry."

"I want to be mad at you," she says, her voice soft and hoarse. "I want to be mad at you, furious even, for deceiving me. For using me. But I can't. I can't because how _could_ you have told me the truth up front?"

"You never would have given me your number," I say, stroking the soft skin on the back of her hands with my thumbs. "I'm so sorry, you know I am." I drop my head into her lap and kiss her hands.

"It's not like you have a choice," she says. She sighs heavily. "I just wish…"

I lift my head. "Me, too." You have no idea how much I wish, Guinevere. "I knew I was in trouble after that first phone conversation. The problem was that I liked you more than I wanted to. No, not more than I wanted to, more than I should have been allowed to. Even then I knew this. I could always maintain this level of detachment, this sort of status quo with the others that I've found that I just _cannot_ do with you."

She nods, telling me that she understands. That she likes me too much, too.

I love her. I know this. I know it in the pit of my stomach, deep in my bones, but I can't say the words. It will hurt too much.

"So what happens?" she asks suddenly.

"What happens what?"

"What happens if, say, I call a taxi and leave right now?"

"Please don't do that," I hastily interrupt, squeezing her hands. She's looking down at me, and while I can see the sadness and pain clearly there, I don't think she's going to bail on me.

"Just an example. Or what happens if you _don't_ break up with me on Day 60? Or you do and don't find a new girl to terrorize? What then?"

I snort briefly at her word choice. "I don't even know if my telling you is going to have any consequences or not. But if I don't break up with you or if I don't find someone the next day, I lose all capacity for both physical and emotional love. No companionship, no deep emotional bond with another person. No sex. I will become a lonely, miserable, impotent man." I heave a great sigh. "Well, I'm already miserable…"

"That's awful," she whispers. "Are you really miserable?"

I nod. "But not when I'm with you. When I'm with you, most of the time, I manage to somehow forget this nightmare that I'm living because your sunlight eclipses that darkness." I reach up to stroke her cheek, wipe away her tears, but I drop my hand before I touch. I don't know if she'd allow it; I don't know if I should allow myself. She doesn't flinch away, but… that contact would be too much for me right now. "Then something happens to remind me that I only have you for eleven more days—"

"Oh…" she gasps softly, realization hitting her anew.

"What I'm trying to say is this curse is always lurking in the back of my brain, and it… leaps out and consumes any happiness I feel with you, because I know it has to end one day."

"That _is_ pretty miserable," she agrees softly. "So… that explains why you were so slow with everything. It explains why you sometimes drift away from me, retreating into your own head. Why you were so reluctant to make love to me…"

I nod. "I haven't made love to anyone in nearly a year, Guinevere. I… I actually try to avoid it."

"Too intimate," she whispers, and I nod again.

"Plus, between the misery and guilt, I'm not really in the mood, most of the time."

She nods, understanding. Then a small smile creeps over her face as she remembers last weekend. "I thought we had a good time," she says, actually giggling a little.

"It was the best weekend I'd had in a very long time," I admit, attempting a small smile of my own. It is short-lived. "But when I went back home to change clothes, I was so sick with guilt that as soon as I was inside, I had to run to the loo and throw up. Not because of you, obviously, but…"

"I understand," she says. Now she strokes my cheek, and my eyes pinch closed again. Her touch burns into me, and I almost cannot bear it.

"Does Morgana realize that by making you do this, she's also making you break heart after heart, just like you did to Morgause? That she's punishing more than just you, spreading the pain instead of stopping it?" she asks, cocking her head at me thoughtfully.

"I don't know that she thought that far, but I think that's just a bonus for her. She's not a nice person, so if she's suffering, she wants other people to suffer when really she should be finding a way to… feel better. Heal, if you like."

"That poor woman," she says. Really? She's finding sympathy for Morgana?

"I suppose so," I allow. I'd never really thought about it from Morgana's perspective. I drop my head back onto her lap. I like having my head in her lap. It's comforting.

"Can you break up with me and then chat me up again the next day?" she asks after what seems an eternity.

"I doubt it. I do know that if I have to break up with you I'm just going to take my lot and be miserable and alone. I can't keep doing this anymore."

"No, Arthur…"

"Yes, Guinevere," I answer, lifting my head again and finally meeting her eyes. "I've known for a long time now that if I find another girl after you, I'll just be spending all my time comparing her to you, lamenting over how she's not you."

Her one hand escapes from mine to cover her mouth. "I…"

"I can't do this to myself anymore; I can't do this to _women_ anymore. This is the only solution I can live with. If you can call this living, even. I'm already miserable. You were able to bring me out of my misery, even if only temporarily. I want that to be my last happy memory: you."

She leans down and wraps her arms around me, joining me on the floor. She's half in my lap, and my knees are aching, but her arms are around me, so I surrender to her. Again. Always. I drop my head on her shoulder and exhale heavily, just letting her hold me.

"I'll understand if you just want to end this now," I whisper, clinging to her as though I am drowning and she is the only thing keeping me afloat. That's certainly what it feels like.

She sighs, kisses the top of my head, and then rests her head on mine. She doesn't say anything for a long moment. Too long. I cling to her, afraid that this might be it. I close my eyes and resign my fate to her decision.

"Let's just… enjoy the time we have left," she says. I relax a little, but still hold tight to her. "It may not be the smartest option, but I'm not ready to let you go yet," she adds, her voice a whisper.

"I'm sorry you got tangled up in this," I say into her hair. "I wanted to tell you so many times before now, it's just I…"

"You didn't know what would happen to you," she whispers.

"No," I lift my head, "I was afraid that something might happen to _you_ if I told you."

"Oh," she says softly, and smiles a little sad smile. "What made you change your mind?"

I put my head back, leaning it against her chest. "I couldn't take it any more. Like I said, I was all set to tell you last Sunday, but your appendix had other ideas…"

"Oh, no," she says, "I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?" I say, actually laughing a little. "It's not like you made that happen. In fact, I was afraid that _I'd_ caused your appendicitis." I kiss her temple.

"Oh, goodness…" she says. "Did you?"

"No, thank God," I say. "Dr. Emrys promised me that it was just a coincidence. He and I actually had a long conversation while you were sleeping. Remember, on Monday, when he said he wanted to talk to me about your care after you went home?" I say.

"Yes, I remember. He was lying?"

"Pretty much. He wanted to talk to me about my curse."

"He could see it?

"He said… what was it? He said I was wearing it like a hat. He's really powerful. Like, seriously the most powerful wizard in the world. He told me that."

"Wow," she says. "So? You talked to him? Did he help you?"

"In a way. He wouldn't lift my curse. He _could,_ but he would not." I go on to tell her about our conversation.

"Sounds like he helped you as much as he felt he could," she says finally, her slender fingers threading through my hair, easing the tangles out. It feels amazingly good.

"Why do magic folk always have to talk in riddles, though? I mean, it's like the more powerful someone is, the more obtuse they become."

"I don't know, Arthur," she says. She looks down. "Are your knees sore?"

"I can't feel my feet," I tell her. She leaps up and pulls me up onto the couch. "I liked Merlin, though. He's a really great guy."

"Merlin? You're on a first-name basis with my surgeon?"

I nod. "I think we're friends, actually," I say, furrowing my brow. "When I left the hospital after talking to him on Monday, his name was in my contacts list on my mobile. I never took it out of my pocket."

"Creepy," she says.

"Little bit. He can also text me with his mind. I think _that's_ creepier," I say.

"Yeah," she agrees. "But I suppose he can do whatever he wants."

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Except lift your curse," she adds with a frown. "Understandable, but still…"

"I know," I sigh.

She leans her head on my shoulder and we sit quietly for a moment. I don't think we're at an impasse yet, but I think we have just run out of words for this topic right now.

"So, what do we do now?" I ask, finally allowing myself to touch her face. Her tears have dried and her cheek is soft and warm.

She sits up and looks at me. "We are going to do what we were planning on doing all along. You're going to take me to the building site, take me to lunch, and then take me shopping."

"So you're really going to see this through with me?" I ask. I can't believe it. I can, but I can't.

"I said I wasn't ready to give you up. I also am not ready to give up _on_ you. Maybe I can help you."  
"Really?"

"Arthur, Dr. Emrys – Merlin – said there is a way out. Once I get over the shock and wrap my mind around this thing, we'll figure it out. Together."

God, I love this woman. I should have known. She's so much smarter than I am. This is good.

"But right now, I want a hot shower," she says.

"Okay. Um, is it too much to hope for a kiss right now? Even just a small one?" I ask. I have never needed her kiss more than I do right now.

"I haven't brushed my teeth yet," she warns, smiling a little.

"Neither have I." I lean over, gently tilt her chin up slightly, and I close my lips over hers, softly and slowly, lingering just long enough to almost satisfy.

I feel slightly dazed again when I pull away from her, just like I did the first time I watched her slowly open her eyes and smile at me.

It almost feels like we're starting anew. It might be only eleven days, but I feel like we have a clean slate now that she knows everything.

She touches my cheek once, then gets up and walks to my bedroom to take a shower.

xXx

She was very impressed by the building site. I don't see what's so impressive about a great bloody hole, but she was fascinated.

"It's just so… big…" she enthused.

"That's what she said." It was out of my mouth like a reflex.

We laughed, really laughed for the first time all morning. It felt great.

By the time we finished there, we were hungry for lunch. It was a little early, but we really didn't get breakfast. My stomach was too knotted to eat, and I think I effectively ruined any appetite she may have had.

We decide to head to the Rising Sun, since we haven't been there in a while.

"Hello, two?" the hostess greets us.

"Yes, is Gwaine working today?" I ask.

"No, he's off, sorry," she says.

"That's fine," I say. "Something kind of private, then, please."

To be honest, I'm a little relieved that Gwaine isn't working today. I just want to have a quiet lunch with Guinevere without having to explain our serious demeanors to Gwaine.

The hostess leads us to a small booth in a corner, and tells us that someone named Jenna will be with us shortly.

She does arrive shortly and takes our drink order.

"Do… do you feel better? Now that you've told me?" Guinevere asks after a bit.

"Yes," I say. I exhale heavily. "I feel like a weight has been lifted – somewhat – from my shoulders. It was so hard, keeping it from you. It just kept getting more and more difficult as the days ticked by and I…" I trail off not sure where exactly I'm heading on this train of thought.

"And you what?" she asks. "Thank you." The waitress has just delivered our drinks. She takes our orders and disappears again. I think she can tell that we're not up for small talk or chit chat.

"Um, where was I?" I ask.

"Days ticking by," Gwen reminds me.

"Right. As time went on and… and I realized how _much_ I liked you… it just made it so hard to keep this from you. Finally, Sunday morning I got to the point where I didn't _want_ to keep it from you any longer."

"You've never been tempted to tell any of the other girls? Not even, what was her name? Elena?"  
"Elena was the only one I ever even considered telling. I came close, but in the end, I chickened out and ended it."

"I guess I'm glad you told me before my Day 60, then," she says, half-smiling, taking a drink of her soda.

"No one knows," I mutter, playing with my straw.

"Hmm?"

"No one knows. Just you. And Morgana. Oh, and Merlin," I say.

"Not even Leon? Uther?"

"No. They just think I have a fear of commitment. That was true once."

"So I'm the only one you've told, then," she says, pondering the weight of this news.

I nod. "Merlin only knows because he's, well, _him._ "

"He is something, isn't he?" she asks.

"Did you know that he's the dragonlord?"

"No, really? I knew he was a Druid, and he's got more tattoos than any Druid I've ever seen, but…"

"Did you notice the triskelion on the back of his neck, then?"

"No, I didn't. Wow, so he really is, then."

"He's scary powerful," I say. "But, strangely, a really nice guy."

"He is. I liked him a lot, actually. I had no idea he was the dragonlord."

"I know; you would never know it to talk to him. I only spotted it because I was looking in the right place when he bent over you after your surgery. I was shocked. I always pictured the dragonlord as some mysterious old coot with a long beard and a staff, someone you stay away from out of reverence and fear."

"That's a rather antiquated image," she chuckles.

"I know. But you know there were no pictures of him from when he stopped the wyverns. His name was never in the papers."

"I know."

"That's probably intentional. I'm guessing he doesn't want that kind of attention. Just going from what I know about him."

"And he probably has the kind of power to keep that attention away," she says.

Our food arrives now, and I realize that I am actually very hungry.

"What Sefa said about you makes perfect sense now," she says after a time.

"Oh, God, you have no idea how much I was freaking out about that. Her and Freya both."

"I think Freya actually knew more than she let on. But she's much too polite and sweet to have said anything incriminating," she says.

"And I am so thankful for that," I say. "Hey, what's the tattoo on her shoulder, do you know? I could see a black tail and I think a paw, but that's it."

"That's an interesting story. I asked Sefa the same thing after the first time I met Freya, and she told me that Freya's family was under a curse for years. All the females turned into a large black cat at night. I think she said it was called a Bastet. Looks like a bloody great panther. Usually the only way out is death. Most of Freya's family is dead. She has a younger brother, I guess. She wanted to protect him."

"From what?" I ask.

"Herself. She didn't want to wake up one morning and find that she's killed her little brother."

"Bloody hell," I say. Suddenly my curse doesn't sound so bad. "But… that night at the club. She was a human…"

"Merlin was able to cure the curse," she explains. "Cure it, or lift it, I guess is the correct term."

"So why could he lift her curse and not mine, I wonder?"

"Didn't he say that Morgana had a legitimate reason for yours?" she asks. I nod. "Well, that's probably the reason. And Freya's curse was on her family and it had been around for a while. Whoever placed it on them might be dead by now, I don't know. That's how they met. She sought him out and asked for his help."

"Love at first sight?" I ask.

I sound like a girl.

"Well, love at first sight followed by immediate denial. Freya didn't want him to think that her feelings were merely misplaced feelings of gratitude, and Merlin didn't want her to think that he was taking advantage. But apparently they couldn't stay away from each other."

"So the tattoo is, what, a reminder?"

She nods. "A reminder to be kind to people because you don't know what they might be dealing with on the inside." She smiles a soft, knowing smile at me.

"Wow. That's pretty profound," I say. I have a new-found respect for the sweet, quiet nurse. "Where is her brother?"

"He's at university. His name is Mordred. What did Sefa say…? He's studying Political Science and History. Wants to be on the Druid council one day."

"That is some story," I say.

"So," she says, putting her fork down and setting her napkin neatly on her plate, "where shall we go after lunch?"

"We can go wherever you would like to go. As long as you're feeling well. _Are_ you feeling well?"

"Yes. I promise you I will let you know if I need to rest or go home. I do need to go to the Food Palace, actually. And then there's the small matter of getting you another pair of pajama bottoms."

"Could do with the market myself," I say.

"All right, then. We'll go to Conrad's and get you some trousers… and I'll maybe look at some other things while we're there…"

"Boots?" I say, smirking at her.

"Perhaps. Summer clothes, maybe."

"Like one of those little sundresses?" I ask, hopefully. I may not get to see her wearing such a thing, but I might get the opportunity to watch her try some on.

She giggles at me. "I've never been much for the little sundresses," she says. "Maybe a maxi dress, though."

What the hell is a maxi dress?

"That's like a sundress, only it's really long," she explains, laughing at the expression on my face.

"Oh. Um, I don't know if you've noticed, but for having spent so much time dating women and being around women, I really know bugger all about fashion," I say, and she just laughs harder.

I should record her laugh. Just in case.

"All right," she stops laughing and returns to her point. "Conrad's, then Food Palace. Then… we could drop my groceries at my flat and… maybe go back to yours?"

"You want to stay over again?" I ask. I wasn't sure if she would still want to.

"If you want me to," she says.

"Of course I do," I say. "Guinevere, I know it kind of feels a little… strange right now…"

"Yeah," she agrees, "it almost feels like we've started over, kind of."

"It does," I sigh. I'm glad she noticed that, too, honestly. "But I want to spend as much time as I possibly can with you, given the circumstances. If I could find a way for us to stay awake all the time for the next ten and a half days just so we don't have to lose time to sleeping, I would. Just in case, you know."

"I feel the same way," she admits softly.

"Again, maybe not the smartest course of action, but…" I shrug.

"I know," she agrees. "I know."

xXx

I've never been a fan of shopping. I don't shop; I buy. I go in, get what I want, and leave. I don't peruse sale racks. I don't – ugh – browse. I need socks. I buy socks.

The only things I spend any time on are suits, but that's only because I have to get them tailored.

Yet here I am, following her around Conrad's like the lost puppy that I am. She picks out not one but two pair of pajama bottoms for me. One is blue and red plaid, and the other is green with penguins on. I rather like the penguins, to be honest.

I wait patiently while she tries on a few things. She lets me pick out something for her to try on. I look pointedly at the lingerie section, and she just laughs and says something about "maybe after my stitches are out."

So I choose a sundress instead. A short one, not one of the long ones she's been looking at.

I know she won't buy it. But I like that she lets me pick something anyway.

And I get to zip and unzip some more.

She buys one of those maxi dress things, a pair of sandals, and a tank top. She says she likes the dress I picked, but it's shorter than she's comfortable wearing (even though she looked amazing in it). I think she felt bad about not buying it, but I promised her it was fine. I told her that I didn't like the thought of other blokes seeing her in it, anyway.

Food Palace was, well, Food Palace. Apart from a brief discussion on cooking dinner versus getting takeaway (takeaway tonight, cooking tomorrow), it was uneventful.

We return to my condo just before three, in time for the joust. It's a later match today, against Odin again. Hopefully we'll beat them this time.

I put my new penguin trousers on. She gets comfortable as well in some pajama bottoms (not the ones she slept in, I notice), and I can see she's tired.

We sit on the couch. It's still a little awkward, despite the easy conversation and teasing during our shopping trip. I'm not really sure what to say or how to act now that I know that she knows.

"You can come over here, if you want," I say, holding my arm out.

She slides over. "Why is it so strange now?" she asks, gradually settling in against me.

"I don't know. I know you know now, and it's a new feeling."

"Don't know how to behave?"

"No. I don't remember how I was before I told you," I say, my voice soft.

She sighs and turns a bit, wrapping an arm around my waist. "You were sweet, and thoughtful… and funny… and sexy," she says, hugging me a bit. "But you also had moments where you were distant… and evasive…"

"And frustrating," I finish. "I hope that stops. And if I do drift away…"

"I'll know why and be able to help," she finishes my sentence now. Then she looks up at me, reaches up, and caresses my cheek. I turn my head and kiss her hand.

"Can I—"

"You don't need to ask permission, Arthur. You can still kiss me whenever you want," she says.

"Sorry, I…"

"I know," she says. I lean down and kiss her, taking longer this time. I haven't really kissed her since this morning, and I've missed her lips.

I don't know why I'm surprised when her lips part for me, but I am. It also makes my heart thump in my chest so hard that I'm sure she can feel it.

We kiss slowly, languidly, as if we are reacquainting ourselves with each other, trying to find ourselves again when we aren't really lost.

She squeaks and gently pulls away. "Can't sit twisted like this," she explains softly.

"Sorry," I say, running my finger down her cheek.

"Not your fault," she chuckles, turning around again to lie against me. "Do you have a blanket?"

"Are you cold?" I ask, sliding out from behind her to fetch a blanket.

"A little. Mostly I just want a blanket."

I return with a fleece blanket. "This do?" I ask.

"That will be fine," she says, smiling at me.

We re-settle and finally start paying attention to the match.

They're talking about Ethan Williams and his big mess. Percival and Sefa get a mention, but they're basically old news now. The only reason they're mentioned is because Sefa's father is in the same group of Druids as that Cylferth fellow, the one who was helping Williams.

"Looks like they're going to make an example of him," I comment to Guinevere. They've just announced that he's been given a lifetime ban from jousting effective immediately. Bloke is going to have to find a new line of work. If anyone will even hire him now.

"Mmm-hmm," she nods.

"Are you sleeping?" I ask.

"Mmm-hmm," she nods again.

I let her sleep. She won't admit it, but I think she did a little too much today.

There are worse things than having a sleeping Guinevere in my arms.

Except with the blanket, I'm a little hot. I try to gently kick my foot out from beneath the blanket. I wish I could take my socks off. I can get one off, the one on my foot on the outside of the blanket, but the leg that's trapped between her and the couch is a problem.

I will deal.

I will also have to remember not to yell at the television or cheer too loudly.

Guinevere sleeps for about an hour, waking shortly after the start of the second half.

"Did you have a nice nap?" I ask.

"Mmm, yes," she says. "Oh, God, you're roasting," she says, flinging the blanket aside and moving slightly away from me to give me some air.

"It's all right," I say. "I do need the loo, though," I say, standing. My trousers are a little stuck to my leg from sweat.

"Sorry," she says.

"I need a snack, do you want something?" I ask when I return. She's just coming out of the other bathroom herself.

"Maybe something to drink," she says. "Just some water is fine."

I bring her a bottle and I have a Cornetto in my hand for myself.

"You still have some of those left?" she asks, her eyes lighting up.

"I forgot they were in there. Haven't been home much lately," I say, handing her the cone in my hand. I head back to the kitchen to get another one for myself.

Percival wins the match, redeeming himself from the last time the Dragons faced the Ogres. Guinevere gets a text from an excited Sefa.

"She's so proud. It's so cute," she giggles, replying to her friend.

"She should be. He's great. They're very lucky," I say.

She smiles reassuringly at me. She knows exactly what I mean now.

xXx

After dinner of takeaway Chinese food from Imperial Wok and a movie on telly, we snuggle into my bed, not even bothering to turn the TV on in the bedroom. She's tired again and so am I.

It's been an exhausting day.

Just before bed, I send Merlin a text.

_A: I told her._

_M: Good._

I stare at my phone a minute, waiting to see if he has any other nebulous pearls of wisdom for me. Nothing. I sigh, set my phone to vibrate, and plug it in, setting it on my nightstand.

Guinevere spoons in front of me, blankets up to her chin, hair back in its normal single braid.

It feels nice. I would stay like this forever, just lying here with her in my arms, all warm and soft…

A slight shudder snaps me out of my reverie. I pay attention. A minute later, it happens again: a small shudder, nearly unnoticeable, but definitely there.

Then a small sniffle. The slight hitch of a breath.

"Guinevere?" I ask softly, reaching up to stroke her cheek. It's wet. "Oh, Love, no…" I say, moving, sitting up slightly so I can see her.

"Sorry…" she apologizes.

"Don't be," I say, "come here." I touch her shoulder, tugging gently, hoping she'll turn around. She does, and I wrap her in my arms, just holding her.

"I was trying to… keep it in… not let you… see…" she says, losing this battle with herself, talking between soft sobs that break my heart.

"You don't have to do that," I say, stroking her hair, her back, kissing her forehead.

"You have enough on… your mind already… you don't need to… worry about me… too…"

"Guinevere, stop, shh," I say. "You're allowed to… I mean, you've been so strong about this all day, unbelievably so, in fact."

"It's just… you've had, like, two years to deal with this… I've had… fourteen hours, maybe? Then just now, alone with you here in the dark… in your arms – which I love being in, don't get me wrong – everything just came crashing down on me." She stops, takes a deep breath, and wipes at her eyes. I reach over to the nightstand and hand her a tissue. "Thank you," she says.

"You're cursed," she continues. "Actually, truly, really cursed. With magic. I can't even process that yet… I mean, I could get beyond your man-whore past. You said you weren't that person anymore, and I believe you."

"Thank you."

"I mean, I don't know what I expected your big secret problem to be, but it wasn't that. I'd been through everything. I thought, 'Maybe he killed someone,' or 'Maybe he was abused,' or, 'Maybe he was an addict.' Never did enchantment enter the picture."

"I don't suppose it would be in the forefront of your mind," I say. She seems to be calming down some.

"It wasn't even in the back of my mind."

I rub her back lightly, kissing her forehead again.

"It's just… so unfair," she says, exhaling heavily. "It's selfish of me, but… I finally find a guy that I really like… I mean _really_ like," she sniffs, "and it turns out he's under a fucking _curse_ …" she stops, the sobs starting again, harder, louder, more heartbreaking. "A curse that only gives us… ten more days…"

The dam bursts, and she's crying hard, her tears wetting my chest but I don't care. My heart is breaking right along with hers, and all I can do is hold her and help her ride it out.

I don't know what to say. Part of me is stunned by her revelation about how much she likes me. Is it possible that she loves me, too? She didn't say it; she came just short of it. I know why she won't say it.

Another part of me is brokenhearted right along with her. She's exactly right. This is completely unfair to her. It's all my fault that she's tied up in this. All because she couldn't reach some rice noodles at the market. All because I happened to be there and it happened to be Day One.

Some people say that there are no accidents. That our lives are mapped out for us before we are even born. Fate, destiny, whatever. If that's true (and I'm not sure whether it is or not), I want to find the man that drew up my destiny so I can give him a swift kick in the bollocks.

And then thank him for bringing Guinevere into my life. I would be floundering for the rest of my life without her.

But her breakdown in my arms here has fully awakened a heretofore very quiet part of me, the part that Sefa saw the other night. The part that has hope. The part that wants to – no, is _determined_ to beat this thing. Merlin said that I'm not doomed. That there is a way out.

Guinevere's sobs have slowed a bit again, and I lean down and kiss her cheek. "We'll figure this out," I say. "I have no idea how, but we will."

She sniffles. I hand her a fresh tissue. She takes a deep breath, wipes her face, and looks up at me.

Her eyes are swollen and red. She's still beautiful. "You think so?" she asks.

"Um, I _hope_ so," I say. "Merlin can't tell me what to do, he can only hint. I… I think I'm too close to it, too deep into it to have the right objectivity. Either that or I'm really stupid."

She laughs a little.

"There," I say. "That's what I want to hear." I lean down and kiss her lips once. "Besides, two heads are better than one, right?"

"I guess so," she says. Her voice is hoarse.

"And you're much smarter than I am, so maybe together…"

"You're very smart, Arthur, don't sell yourself short," she says.

"Smart in the wrong ways for this problem, I think."

"I can't think clearly about this yet," she says. "It's too new."

"I know," I say.

"Oh…" she gasps, suddenly realizing that my chest is all wet. She starts dabbing at it with the tissue in her hand.

"It's really fine," I say, closing my hand over hers, stilling it on my chest, the tissue still clutched in her slender fingers.

"Thank you, Arthur," she says, smiling a little bit as she looks up at me.

"For what?"

"For letting me fall apart on you. For letting me be selfish. For letting me get my tears and snot all over your chest," she says, her smile growing with her last statement.

"Anytime," I say.

It's what you do when you love someone.

She snuggles against me, still facing me, tucked against me.

"Goodnight," she says softly, leaning her face up to mine.

I kiss her waiting lips. They're so soft. "Goodnight, Guinevere," I whisper. "Sleep well. Please." If she gets nightmares or insomnia because of me, I'll just die.

"You, too," she whispers. "That's why you needed me to keep your nightmares away…" she mumbles.

"Yes. And it worked every time," I say, whispering now as well. "You keep the demons away, Guinevere."

"Oh…" she gasps, as if this news surprises her.

"Go to sleep, Love," I say, kissing her one last time.

"'Kay," she says.

She falls asleep almost immediately.

She's so strong. Beautiful. Wonderful. Smart.

I want to spend every moment of the rest of my life with her, but I know that I do not deserve such a privilege.

Nevertheless, I'm going to try.

I have to. I cannot see those tears again on Day 60.


	51. Day 50

Guinevere is still curled in my arms when I wake up. I love that. She's turned so she's facing away from me now, but she's still close, nestled in front of me like the best little spoon ever.

I lean my head down and smell her hair. I don't want to wake her.

"Good morning."

She's already awake.

"Did I wake you?" I ask, kissing the edge of her ear. I don't think I did.

"I've been up for about fifteen minutes," she says.

"Oh," I say. "Waiting for me?"

"Something like that. Was mulling over getting up to cook us some breakfast, actually. But I was quite comfortable here, so I opted for being a slugabed."

I chuckle, nuzzling her neck. "Good choice," I say. She snuggles back against me. It's a little _too_ nice. "Careful, I'm only in my underwear back here, you know," I say, tightening my arms around her to try and still her.

"Sorry," she apologizes. Then, "Oh! So I see! Goodness," she exclaims, moving her hips forward slightly so that her lovely round bottom isn't pressing against that part of me that is always awake well before I am.

"It's all right, it's just that…"

"I'm still under restriction," she says. She doesn't sound very happy about that.

"Well, yes, but… wait. You still want to… even though you know about…?"

She turns around now, facing me.

"Stupid, right?" she asks. "Stupid and a little self-destructive and a lot selfish, but…" she shrugs. "Don't you?" she asks, suddenly worried.

"Oh, I do," I say. I would right now if she were able. And if I didn't fear the wrath of Dr. Merlin. "I guess I'm just surprised that you're still… willing."

She leans her face up and kisses me softly. "Plenty willing. Just not able at the moment, unfortunately."

"You always surprise me," I mutter, kissing her in return.

"Hey, if I only have ten days, I want the most I can get from them," she says, slowly smiling at me.

"You keep talking and looking at me like that, and we'll both wind up in big trouble with our favorite dragonlord," I say. Then I kiss her again.

"I'm going to go shower," she whispers. "Probably should do alone," she adds with a smile.

"I'll behave myself. Might want to lock the door, though," I call after her. She laughs.

xXx

"How do you take your eggs?" Guinevere asks me when I emerge from my shower, clean and dressed. She's made herself quite at home in my kitchen, making better use of it than I ever have.

"Scrambled, please," I say. "I see you found my secret bacon stash."

She laughs. "Yes, _very_ secret. In the fridge, very clever, I never would have looked there in a million years," she says, flipping the bacon and scooting it over to the edge of the pan to add the eggs.

She hands me a cup of what I think is tea. It turns out to be cocoa.

I love her.

Wait. I don't have any cocoa or anything with which to make cocoa here. "Where did you get this?" I ask. I drink. It's really good.

"You obviously weren't paying attention when we were at my flat yesterday," she says, cracking eggs into the pan.

"I was in the loo, wasn't I?"

"Not the entire time," she laughs. "I grabbed a few things from my kitchen."

"Mmm," I say, nodding slightly. "This is so good."

"Thank you. I can show you how to make it; it's really easy."

"It's not just open the packet and add hot water?" I ask. Stupidly. I know the answer already. She just gives me one of those _looks_ again.

"What would you like to do today?" I ask quickly, taking another sip.

"I would like to see something pretty," she declares.

"Art museum?"

"Something that doesn't require deep thought. Something you can appreciate for its beauty alone," she says.

"Hmm," I say, rubbing my chin thoughtfully. "I was about to say something about sitting here and staring at you all day, but that wouldn't exactly be accurate."

"What?" she asks, looking at me, confused.

"Well, I appreciate you for much more than your beauty alone," I say softly, taking another sip of my cocoa.

"Stop," she says, grinning bashfully and turning her attention back to our breakfast.

"Shall I make us some toast?" I say, standing. "Would you like some, I mean?"

"No thank you, but feel free to make some for yourself," she says.

"Oh, well, thank you for your permission," I laugh. She just grins at me again. "But you never said where it was you had in mind."

"Right. Albion Botanical Gardens," she declares.

"Oh. Okay," I say. I can't say that it's honestly on the top of my list of Places to See, but it's what she wants.

And today, right now, I will do whatever she wants.

Somehow I don't think that willingness is limited to just today, though.

"I know it's probably not your favorite place," she says, smirking at me.

"I've never been," I say.

"I can't imagine that you would," she says, bringing our plates to the table.

xXx

The gardens are actually quite nice. Guinevere says it's a little early yet for a lot of things to be blooming. It's still a nice place and the weather is perfect. It's also not crowded, because it's early in the season.

"Sorry again about falling apart on you last night," she says quietly. We're walking among the roses, most of them either not blooming yet or just starting to bloom.

"Guinevere, you don't need to apologize for that," I say. "I honestly would have been surprised if you hadn't fallen apart at some point."

"Really?"

"I'm actually surprised that you didn't just go home yesterday morning without looking back," I add.

She stops walking and looks at me, dropping my hand. "You really think that little of me?"

"What? No! No, not at all. I mean, _logically_ , I know that you would never do that to me. There's too much goodness in you," I say, reaching for both her hands. "You have a capacity for sympathy towards others that just… blows my mind." I sigh. "But logic really wasn't with me yesterday morning, as you know. It's… it's more that I think that little of myself, really. I wasn't able to see how you _would_ stay with me because of _me_." I frown. "I'm not explaining things very well."

"You are," she says, wrapping her arms around my waist now, hugging me. "I understand what you mean, I do." She squeezes me. "I'm sorry that you think that little of yourself."

"Can you blame me?" I ask her, kissing her head.

"Stop, now," she says, looking up at me. She takes my face between her hands. "Yes, you made bad decisions in the past. But that's just what it is now: the past. You know you were a twat, you feel badly about it now, and you're not doing it anymore." She strokes my cheeks softly with her thumbs. "Okay, so it took your sister cursing you to make you see it, but you still got there. And who's to say that you wouldn't have come to that realization on your own without the curse?"

"Morgana," I say.

Gwen shrugs and nods, as if she's saying, _Yeah, all right._

"If I had met you three years ago…" I say. Why couldn't I have met Guinevere three years ago?

"You said yourself that our relationship would have been very short," she reminds me.

"Maybe. Maybe not. You have magic of your own, I think," I say. Then I lean down and kiss her. Luckily no one's around, because I kiss her a little longer than I should, here amongst the rosebushes.

We separate and she stares at me, wide-eyed, a little surprised at what I've just told her, I think.

"You are so beautiful, Guinevere," I whisper. "I don't say it enough."

"You say it too much," she protests softly, ducking her head. "Come on, let's keep walking."

There's a butterfly garden full of plants that butterflies like, an edible garden with herbs and vegetables, a water garden with lily pads and koi fish and waterfalls, and a children's garden with a small playground and interesting plants like Lamb's Ears and Monkey Flowers and Goldfish Plants. There's also a Japanese garden, which I really like. It's very architectural; I think that's why. Not a lot of flowers but a lot of precisely-trimmed evergreens and large rocks placed just so. I think it was the one area that Gwen was ready to leave before I was.

It was very soothing. Calming. I felt peaceful there. It was so quiet, so serene. I could just be.

Guinevere stood with me, holding my hand, letting me soak it in, patiently waiting for me.

When I finally build my house, I need a garden like this. If not the entire garden, then at least a section.

My house. Hopefully _our_ house.

We don't talk about the curse or anything deep. She had said she wanted to appreciate beauty without having to think too deeply, and we already broke that rule in the rose garden.

She really knows a lot about plants. I learn that this is because she spent several summers working at Neville's Garden Center, Camelot's largest greenhouse. It's not like Forget-Me-Not Floral, Hunith's shop. Hers is a florist's shop, not a greenhouse. Neville's handles outdoor plants for gardens. Flowers, shrubs, trees, that kind of thing. Apparently she learned a lot there and has been dying for a garden of her own ever since.

"Did you never think about buying a house of your own?" I ask.

"What with?" she asks simply, shrugging. There is no bitterness or anger in her voice. "What money my father had when he died covered his funeral expenses, and his house, the house we grew up in, still had a mortgage on it. Elyan and I had to sell it because neither of us could afford to keep it."

"Sorry," I say. "That must have been difficult."

"It was. Selling or donating most of his things, selling the house in which Elyan and I had so many memories… then having to do it all again, alone this time, a few years later with El's things when he died…"

I wrap my arm around her shoulders and kiss her temple. We walk inside, into one of the greenhouses. There are two, a tropical one and a desert one.

"We're breaking my rule again," she says finally. "We're not supposed to be… _thinking_ about things."

"I know," I say, kissing her again.

"Well, I suppose both times were kind of my fault," she admits, laughing a little.

"I wasn't going to say anything," I say, smirking at her. She pokes me in the ribs.

We walk through the tropical greenhouse. It's warm and humid, and there are palm trees and banana trees and hibiscus flowers all around us.

One day I'd like to take her someplace tropical. Tahiti. Fiji. Hawaii. Walk on the beach with our toes in the warm sand. Eat seafood until we pop. Guinevere in a bikini…

She's staring at me. "Are you drifting?" she asks, furrowing her brow. "You kind of look like you are, but it's different."

I slowly grin. "You really want to know?"

"Well, with that look on your face, definitely."

"I was thinking about you in a bikini."

"Oh, you _are_ dreaming," she laughs. "How did that brain of yours get there?"

"Well, we're in this greenhouse with all these tropical plants, it just got me thinking that one day, if I can, I'd like to take you someplace tropical. That led to thoughts of seafood and beaches and… you in a bikini. A proper bikini, not one of those with the coconuts on top, honest."

She laughs. "I don't even own a bikini," she says. "But I love the idea. Maybe if we are able to do that one day, I'll suck up my inhibitions and buy one."

"Inhibitions?" I ask. I wasn't aware that she had any.

"Darling, if I don't even want to wear a short sundress, do you honestly think I'd be comfortable wearing a bikini?"

"Oh. I guess I never thought… I mean, you have an amazing body, Guinevere."

"Well, thank you, but that doesn't mean I need to let _everyone_ see it," she says. "I've just never been comfortable showing a lot of skin."

I lean in close. "You seemed pretty comfortable last weekend," I murmur, kissing her ear.

"That's different and you know it," she giggles.

We head into the desert greenhouse now. "You know where I'd like to go?"

"Where's that?"

"One of those resorts where the rooms are little huts out over the water."

"Um… Bora Bora, in French Polynesia," I say.

"You've been there?" she asks, surprised.

"No. But I've seen photos. I'm almost sure that's where they were from," I say. "It sounds perfect, though." Of course, anywhere alone with Guinevere is perfect. We could be in a broom cupboard, and…

A lot can be done in a broom cupboard, actually.

The desert greenhouse isn't as lush as the tropical one, but it has a stark, sparse beauty. A few of the cacti have flowers sticking out of them, almost looking like they were stuck on with glue. They don't really look like they belong there. They're surprisingly pretty flowers.

Guinevere laughs when I lean in close, attempting to discover if it's really a part of the cactus.

"It's real, Arthur," she laughs. "You're being silly, and if you lean in any closer, you're going to fall and poke yourself."

"Sorry, I just have a hard time believing that something that beautiful can sprout from something so prickly."

She looks at me. Then she raises her eyebrows at me, and waits for me to fathom what it is I've just said.

Oh. Right. Metaphor. I remember a few things from my literature classes.

"Ha, right," I say, laughing through my slight embarrassment. If it weren't for this curse, I probably wouldn't have even met her. "I guess it is possible." I run my hand through my hair. Then I lean down and kiss her softly.

An elderly couple walks past. He frowns, she smiles. Guinevere giggles and pulls me along, following the path through the greenhouse.

We laugh like adolescents at the fact that there are so many kinds of cacti that look like penises. At one point she worries that the elderly man is going to track down a security guard and have us ejected.

"What would they throw us out for, laughing? _Enjoying_ ourselves?" I ask, a little louder than necessary, for the benefit of the old man. "Heaven forbid we have a good time, oh no…"

"Stop," she laughs, placing her fingers over my mouth. I kiss them almost reflexively, then take them in my own. We make our way out, pausing by a small collection of plants dubbed "living stones," visually picking out which are the plants and which are the stones.

"Let's get some lunch," Guinevere says as we walk to my car.

"Yes, I'm starving," I say. "This was more fun than I was expecting."

"Thank you for taking me. I'm glad you weren't completely bored," she says.

"I wasn't bored at all, actually," I say. I wasn't bored. Perhaps because I was with her.

xXx

After lunch at Hero's, I take her to my office and show her some of my design ideas for my next project, the school addition. She asked, actually. Apart from Elena, she's the only woman I've dated who has actually had an interest in my job. Elena thought it was interesting, but Guinevere seems genuinely _interested._ She even offers a suggestion or two and tells me which of the two ideas I'm working on she prefers.

Unbeknownst to me, she had packed enough to stay over tonight as well, so she declines my offer to stop at her flat.

"You're tired," I tell her.

"Not as bad as yesterday," she says. "It feels good to get out and do things again, though. I was starting to go stir-crazy in my flat."

"Well, when we get home… I mean, to my condo, you are to rest." Whoops. That was an interesting slip of the tongue.

"Yes, Mum," she says, tactfully ignoring my word choice and rather sloppy recovery.

She definitely noticed it, though. I saw it on her face.

Truth is, I would have said "home" even if we were going to her flat. Home is wherever she is.

The thought is sobering. It's both amazing and terrifying.

"Until I cook us dinner," she says.

"If you're not up for it, that's fine. We can order in again, or there's some lasagna in the fridge yet from Friday," I say.

"I promised you steak, and steak you shall have," she declares.

"Guinevere…" I say.

"Arthur…" she parrots back at me.

"Don't be stubborn. Rest, and we'll decide later." I pull my car into its parking spot.

"Oh, we should have stopped at my flat," she says.

"Why, what do you need?" I ask.

"I was just thinking that we should have picked up my car. We both have to work tomorrow."

"I'll drop you off. It's no trouble at all," I say.

"You're sure?" she asks.

"Yes. Come on, let's go up."

She rests for about an hour on my couch. I do some cleaning, making sure to stay quiet. I don't vacuum.

I really wanted to let her sleep in my arms like she did yesterday. But honestly, I think we've both been a little worked up since our conversation this morning, based on the distracting kisses we shared at the botanical garden and the thoughts that have been invading my skull all day.

Going to sleep tonight might prove difficult. I'm still reeling from the fact that she's still willing. More than willing, from the sound of things.

When Merlin said "at least a week," did he mean a week from her surgery or a week from her release from the hospital? She was out on Tuesday. She's having her stitches out tomorrow, maybe she'll ask. Maybe I can gently suggest she ask.

"Hey," Guinevere says, shuffling past me on her way to the loo.

"You're awake," I say. "How are you feeling?"

"Good enough to cook," she calls back, closing the door.

"In that case, don't forget to wash your hands," I yell.

"Funny," I hear, slightly muffled through the bathroom door.

xXx

This woman knows how to cook a steak. She's definitely worth keeping around. I tell her it's the best steak I've ever had and she gives me that _pull the other one, it has bells on_ look.

I do realize that I said the same thing about the Pad Thai. It doesn't make my words tonight any less true. She cooked my steak perfectly, and I know steak. It's my favorite food. I'm a man; I like red meat.

We watch some telly after dinner. I have a thought, and go grab my laptop.

"What are you looking up?" she asks.

"You'll see," I say. "Aha." I scoot closer to her and show her the screen. "Google maps; Bora Bora. Look." I zoom in and show her the overhead view of the little resort huts suspended over the water.

"Oh…" she breathes, leaning in close and looking. "That's exactly it!"

"And there are one… two… three…" I scroll around and count. "Looks like eight different resorts to choose from."

"That one says 'Resort and Spa,'" she says, pointing to one. "I like the sound of that." She grins at me.

"I'll make a deal with you," I say, looking at her. "If we can break this thing, I'll take you there. Maybe for Christmas, when it's cold and miserable here. I promise."

"Oh, Arthur…" she sighs, her hand over her mouth, as if she's afraid to even dream.

"I know, it's hard for me to think of making long-term plans, too, but… maybe if we have something _else_ to focus on, something we both want… I mean, apart from the obvious…" the obvious being something I'm afraid I'll jinx by saying aloud.

Guinevere just nods, her hand still at her face. "You've never made long-term plans before," she says softly, gazing at me with wonder. And concern.

"No, I haven't. Haven't made long-term plans, haven't planned a holiday or even a weekend away with anyone." I snort a laugh. "I could really use a holiday," I add. "Haven't had the ability to get away for two years."

"Wow, even I went to France for a few days last year," she says. "And I have a business to run."

"So, yes? We fix this, we can go to Bora Bora and this Resort-Spa place?" I tap the screen.

"Well, I'm actually quite content with just lifting the curse, but sure, I'll take the bonus package as well. Oh, and just so you know, my birthday is two days before Christmas."

"All the more reason to go at that time, then," I say. I want to find this place's website and book rooms right now. But I can't. Not until I know.

Of course, if we don't lift the curse, I may want a holiday anyway. But how depressing would that be? Lonely hermit Arthur Pendragon, alone at the romantic resort he planned on bringing the woman he once loved.

Too sad. Think about something else.

"And you'll get a bikini?" I ask, smirking at her.

"Yes, I'll get a bikini," she agrees, rolling her eyes.

We cruise around the South Pacific via Google maps for a bit, zooming out to find other places and then zooming back in when we see something interesting. It's very entertaining. Then we cruise back up to the UK and find Camelot and our homes. She shows me the house she grew up in. I show her Pendragon Manor (Uther's house) and Father's cottage on the Isle of Wight, which I also promise to take her to if I can.

"Where does your sister live?" Guinevere asks.

"She has a cottage in the Darkling Wood," I say. "I don't think we'll see it on here. The trees are pretty thick. Plus I don't know if she would, you know, allow it."

"Right," she nods. "So, is that why our picnic was in Essetir?"

"One of the reasons, yes," I say, nodding.

"Well, that's honest of you," she laughs.

xXx

Lying in bed with her is remarkably distracting. And frustrating. I want to kiss her, but I'm afraid I won't be able to stop if I start.

She feels so perfect in my arms. Everything about her calls to me. "Guinevere, I need to kiss you," I say.

"Go right ahead," she says.

"But I'm afraid I won't be able to stop if I start," I say, tracing her jaw with my finger as she looks up at me.

"You will. I trust you," she says. "You know we're not supposed to, so you won't let yourself."

Then she scoots herself higher, her lips centimeters from mine.

"Temptress," I mutter. Then I kiss her. I kiss her with an abandon I haven't yet earned. I kiss her with hope, hope for more, hope for a future.

My hands slide on her back, and hers clutch my chest, my shoulders. Our tongues spar and dance, luxuriating in each other.

Then my hand slides around and cups her breast through her shirt. She gasps and presses her breast into my hand, encouraging me.

"Mmm," she moans, her hand sliding down to my stomach, down over the front of my boxer briefs.

I feel her hand on me, over my pants, and I groan, my hips flexing into her hand on their own.

Yes. No. Her hand is moving towards my waistband.

"Guinevere," I say, stopping her hand with mine.

"Dr. Emrys didn't say anything about you, just me," she says.

She has a point.

No. It's not fair to her.

"I know, but… it's not fair to you," I say, inwardly cursing my newfound gallantry. The old me would have laid back and let her go to town. But I'm not that person anymore.

"Oh," she says. I think I've confused her.

"Guinevere, trust me, part of me wants to let you, but a larger part of me wants to wait until you can have equal enjoyment."

"Wow, that's… noble of you," she says.

"I'm trying," I say.

"And here I've gotten you all… you know…"

"It's all right, I've been dealing with that plenty since I've met you," I say.

"But didn't you say that you… _you know._ "

"Not all the time. Sometimes I just tell him to shut it and go to sleep," I say.

She laughs. "Does that work?"

"Not as often as I would like," I admit, chuckling now as well. I kiss her nose.

"Soon," she says. "I'll turn around, will that help?"

"Not really, but at least you won't be laying on your stitches then."

"Can't wait to get these bloody things out. They itch something terrible," she says, pecking my lips once before turning around.

"Goodnight, Guinevere," I say, giving her a little squeeze.

"Goodnight, Arthur. Thank you for a lovely day."

"My pleasure. Any time."

I'm exhausted, too. Who knew that confessing everything would be so draining? I snuggle behind her, kiss her shoulder, and drop off to sleep almost immediately, thinking of a bikini-clad Guinevere lounging in a hammock in Bora Bora at Christmas time, holding a sprig of mistletoe over her head.

The possibility of a lifetime with my Guinevere is definitely incentive enough to try to lift this curse, but the little bit of extra encouragement in the form of a tropical holiday where I could have her all to myself definitely doesn't hurt.

It's the icing on a cake that already has everything I want.


	52. Day 51

She's up already when I wake up. I can hear her singing in the shower. I've heard her hum before, but I've never heard her sing. She has an excellent singing voice. I lie in my bed, just listening to her.

The shower turns off and I decide to play possum, wondering if she'll wake me, and, if so, how.

Her singing diminishes to quiet humming, and a few minutes later, I hear my bathroom door open. I peek, just a little, and see Guinevere walking in, wrapped in a towel.

Bloody hell, if she weren't under restriction, we'd both be late to work today.

I will my body to be still, my breathing to be regular and slow. I just make out her quiet footfalls on my carpet approaching the bed. I can smell her clean scent as she leans over, kisses my forehead softly, and whispers, "I know you're awake."

My eyes pop open, "Shit. How could you tell?"

She laughs. "I saw you peeking, you dirty boy. Couldn't resist, could you?"

"No," I say, grinning, rolling onto my back and lacing my fingers behind my head.

"What time do you need to get up?" she asks, sauntering away, using a second towel to dry her hair.

"Oh, now. Ish," I say lazily. She laughs.

"Get up, then. You don't get to lie there and ogle me while I dress."

"I don't?" I ask, pouting. Pouting on purpose, of course.

"Oh, no, no pouting. Get your arse in the shower. You may not care about being to work on time, but I do. Especially because I need to leave early this afternoon to go to my appointment."

"You're really cute when you're ordering me around, do you know that?" I ask, getting up.

She sighs, growing exasperated with me. "Are you always this difficult on weekday mornings, or is this just a special performance for me?" she asks.

I stop, look her straight in the eye, and say, "I have no idea." Because I don't. If I had sleepovers with a girl, it was never on a work night.

She cocks her head at me. "I suppose not," she says.

I lean over, kiss her cheek, and head into the bathroom.

xXx

I drop her off at her flat with 15 minutes to spare. That will give her enough time to go upstairs and take care of her things before opening the shop.

"See, I told you it would be no problem," I say.

"I know," she allows, smiling at me.

"What time is your appointment?"

"3:30."

"Do you want me to drive you?" I ask.

"I'll be fine, Arthur, thank you. I am allowed to drive," she says.

"Okay," I say. I kind of wanted to go along.

"Um… will you come over tonight?" she asks.

" _Over_ over? Like to _stay_ over or just have dinner and hang out for a while? Either one is fine, I just want to know if I need to pack." Please, please, please…

She leans over and kisses me. "Pack," she whispers.

"Ooo, right answer," I mutter, kissing her.

"I need to go," she says. "I had a really good weekend, all things considered."

"Me, too," I say.

"Thank you for telling me. I'm… I'm really glad you felt that you could tell me."

"I'm glad I told you, too. I feel so much better having done so."

"See you after work," she says, reaching for the door handle. She stops. "Oh, I won't tell Sefa. Just so you know."

"I didn't think you would, but thank you."

"She may be able to tell that something has changed, but I'll be vague."

"Okay," I say, smiling a little. I trust her, and I love that she's respecting my desire to keep this whole mess as quiet as possible.

Of course, she saw how hard it was for me to tell _her,_ and she also knows that I haven't told anyone else.

"I really have to go now," she says.

"Have a good day," I call after her. "Take it easy."

"You, too, and I will," she says. Then she closes the car door and I watch her walk to her door, turn and wave at me, then disappear.

I miss her already.

xXx

The day passes quickly, thankfully. I work on my design some more, concentrating on the one that Guinevere liked better. Leon hassles me briefly about throwing him over in favor of Guinevere, but then I point out he's done the same with me for Gwaine. He invites us to dinner again, tomorrow night, and after a quick text exchange with Guinevere, we accept.

Should be entertaining, at least. And Leon's a pretty good cook. Guinevere insisted on bringing dessert, so I have a feeling I'll be watching her make something tonight.

I'm looking forward to it, I realize. I like watching her in the kitchen. And I wonder what she's going to make.

I stop at home quickly to change clothes, collect my mail, and pack a bag.

_A: Am I picking something up for us to eat or do you have it sorted?_

She probably has something figured out already, but it doesn't hurt to ask.

_G: I've got pizza ordered. Was going to cook, but now I have a dessert to make. Also feeling lazy._

_A: Pizza is fine. Remember, I used to live on cup-o-noodles._

_G: Why are you texting me when you should be driving over here?_

All right, then.

_A: On my way._

She buzzes me in and I head up. When I go in, I find her already working on something in the kitchen. I see a box of cake mix, but I also see a recipe card.

I quickly toss my things in her room and head back into the kitchen. "What are you making?" I ask, coming up behind her and kissing her cheek.

"Rum cake," she says.

"Sounds good. But are you cheating? I see a cake mix," I say, pointing to the empty box on the counter. I also notice a box of pudding mix and a bottle of rum.

She hands me the recipe. Oh. It uses the cake mix, but there's other stuff with it.

"There are a lot of recipes that take a cake mix or some other mix and build from it differently than what the instructions say on the back," she says, taking the card back.

"Oh, really?" I ask.

"Yeah. There are entire cookbooks and big sections of recipe websites devoted to such a thing," she says.

"Recipe websites?" I ask, as though I never would have thought to put those two words together before. Because I haven't.

"Oh, Arthur, really," she says, "all the things on the internet and you're surprised that there are websites for recipes?"

"I thought it was mainly for cat videos and porn," I say, and she laughs. The door buzzes.

"That'll be the pizza," she says, wiping her hands.

"I'll get that," I say, jogging to the door. I'm hungry.

We eat pizza while the cake bakes, sitting in the kitchen.

"How was your appointment?" I ask.

"Really good," she says. "See?" she scoots her chair back slightly and lifts up her shirt enough so I can see that her stitches are now gone.

"That looks really good," I say. "In a couple weeks, you'll hardly be able to see the holes." Please put your shirt back down.

"You think?" she asks, looking down at the three spots on her otherwise smooth stomach.

"Oh, yeah. I mean, _you'll_ know they're there, but to the casual observer—"

"Which will be no one, since my stomach doesn't come out in public," she says, putting her shirt back down.

"Unless we go to Bora Bora," I add.

"Fine," she sighs. "But somehow I don't think I'll be seeing a lot of people other than you if we make that trip."

I chuckle. She _so_ has me figured out. " _Anyway_ , what I was trying to say is that if a person doesn't know they're there, they probably won't notice them."

"Right. Dr. Gaius says hello, by the way. He asked if you were still 'calling on' me."

I snort.

"He's so cute, in that old man kind of way," she says. Her face goes a bit thoughtful for a second. "Tell me again what Dr. Emrys said."

Ah. She wants to talk business now. "Oh. Um… let's see… he knew right away that I had this curse. The first thing he said to me was, 'you're the boyfriend… for now,' and then he did that eyebrow thing of his. It was very unsettling. Then he reassured me that your appendicitis was merely a coincidence and that I did not cause it by, um…"

"Having me six different ways?" she supplies, smirking at me.

"Ha, I did say that once, didn't I?" I think a moment. "Did we really do it six times?"

"Oh, yes," she says, giggling. "I'm quite sure. Wait, isn't it _your_ job to count things?"

"Days, not… interludes," I say, chuckling. And six times is just not enough, quite frankly.

"All right, so what else did he say?" she prompts.

"He said that I wasn't doomed forever. He promised me that I wasn't, in fact. Then he scurried away."

"Well, that's reassuring," she says. "And the next day? When he _lied_ to me?" She grins at me.

"Let's see… basically he said that while he _can_ lift my curse, he _won't_ because it's bad manners in the magical community. If Morgana was just being a bitch, then he would. But he said that she had a reason, so he can't intervene. He even confirmed it with the Taliesin the next day."

"Okay," she says, listening intently to everything. Collecting information. Absorbing. "What else?"

"Umm…" I run my hand through my hair, trying to remember. I do remember, but trying to relate the information to Guinevere is the hard part. "He assured me that the curse is break-able. He wouldn't tell me how, though."

"Of course not. Because that would be violating _The Code,_ " she says. She sets her napkin on her plate, finished with her food.

"He asked me a question about insanity… 'Do you know what the definition of insanity is?' he asked me."

"Isn't that doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results? Something like that, right?"

"How did you know that?" I ask.

"It's kind of become a saying… an axiom, that kind of thing."

"Oh. It makes sense, but I'm just surprised because you said almost exactly the same thing he did."

"I get what he's saying, though. You've been living your life under this umbrella of rules and guidelines for yourself. Thinking that the structure makes dealing with your curse manageable. That that was the way to do it."

"Yes." See? Smarter than me.

"And then… and I'm just guessing, based on your words and actions in _our_ relationship… I came along and blew right past your rules?"

"You came along and gleefully _stomped_ on my rules," I say, smiling. "And the weird thing is, I just stood by and let you do it. I knew that I was not following my usual pattern, and I couldn't make myself go back to it. You're just too much bloody _fun_ , damn you."

She laughs. "But he was saying that _not_ following your rules is a good thing," she continues.

"Well, honestly, I think it's a good thing in this case. In _our_ case. I don't know that I could be walking this path with, say, Vivian."

"Clearly," she agrees.

"But I also think there is more to it than my not following my rules."

"Well, yes. Obviously he knew that I didn't know about your situation. He was maybe telling you that you should tell me."

"I had already decided by that point that I was going to tell you," I say. "Remember how I said I wasn't sure if something bad would happen to you if I told you?" She nods. "I think… I think his words reassured me that you'd be okay."

"Oh," she says, nodding.

"He also says I don't trust myself enough."

"You don't," she says plainly. Is it that obvious? "You do have a good heart, Arthur. You've just got to learn to follow it. Trust it," she adds, softer.

"I should trust you, too," I say. "That's much easier to do." I don't want to admit how much I am depending on her right now. I feel like she is my lifeline.

She smiles. "Well, I hope I live up to your expectations, then," she says.

"I have every confidence in you, my sweet," I say, leaning back. "I'm done. Eating, I mean."

"Okay," she says, smiling at me, and we start cleaning up the pizza box and leftovers. We move to the living room and her couch. "Now. Is there anything else I need to know before I start thinking about this for real?"

Wow, she does mean business.

"Well, on Day 45 – I mean, the day you came home from hospital… sorry, I tend to think of the days by their numbers. Habit," I say with a sigh.

"It's all right," she says. "We're on, what, 51 today?"

I nod. Nine days left to sort this out. "Um, anyway, last Tuesday when you came home, while you were napping, Merlin texted me."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, he basically wanted to let me know that he confirmed with the Taliesin that he couldn't just free me from this thing. And he gave me another piece of cryptic information. Advice. Whatever." I lean back on the couch.

"What was that?" she asks, settling in against me, fitting in like the missing piece of my puzzle that she is.

"He told me to stop using my curse as a crutch."

"That's… interesting," she says. "Going to have to think about that one."

"Well, when things are going badly for me, I _do_ tend to blame the curse," I admit, kissing her temple. "And if I'm feeling cranky or down…"

"You blame it on the curse instead of figuring out what's really bothering you?" she guesses, turning to look up at me.

"Perhaps," I say, pecking her lips. They're right there. "Occasionally it _is_ the fault of the curse, though. Especially lately."

"What do you mean?"

"Well… I'm very happy when I'm with you, as I've said." I give her a gentle squeeze. "And lately, the only real source of unhappiness has been, um, well, dreading Day 60. Feeling like a complete shit because I knew I'd have to leave you."

"Not if we figure this thing out," she reminds me.

"Right. I'm speaking about the recent past in general. So lately _that_ particular worry has transitioned into worrying about what's going to happen if we can't lift the curse."

"I see," she says, frowning. "So… he's telling you to deal with your _real_ problems, that this curse _isn't_ a problem?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe he thinks the answer to lifting it is so simple that it _shouldn't_ be a problem." I snort. "Easy for him to say, though, he's on the outside looking in. And he's a bloody wizard."

"It's always easier on the outside, isn't it?" she says.

"Better objectivity, I think." I lean down and kiss her. "Thank you, Guinevere."

"For what?"

"For… lots of things. For not leaving me. For trying to help me figure this out. For being you, basically." I kiss her again.

Her timer goes off. I give her a puzzled look.

"Cake," she says.

"Oh, that's right, I forgot about that," I say, opening my arms so she can get up.

"Come on; you can help," she says, pulling my arm.

"I can? Are you sure that's a good idea?" I ask, following.

"You can't mess this up," she assures me, stopping to turn and give me a kiss. "Oh, and you're welcome, by the way."

She pulls the cake out of the oven and places it on a wire rack to cool. "In that drawer, grab a couple of toothpicks. Poke the cake full of tiny holes."

"Um, okay," I say, opening the drawer and pulling out two toothpicks. "Last chance to disarm me," I say, wielding my tiny weapons.

She laughs and waves her hand at me. She's stirring something in a pan on the stove now.

"What are you doing?" I ask, studiously poking holes into the cake.

"I'm making a syrup to pour over the cake," she says. Then she glances over at me. "Arthur, you're not making a grid," she sighs. "Just poke."

"That's what she said," I say, and she starts laughing.

"I _did_ kind of say that, didn't I?" She laughs more now. "Last Friday, when we… when you were trying to be all gentlemanly and take your time."

I smile and set down my toothpicks. I think the cake has been perforated enough. I step over to Guinevere, nose my way through her hair to her neck, kiss it, and murmur, "You have no idea how relieved I was when you told me to savor it next time."

This just makes her giggle more. She squirms out of my grasp to take a measuring cup with a small amount of rum in it. She turns the flame off and adds the rum to the liquid in the pan. I can smell the vapors of the rum as the alcohol evaporates in the hot liquid.

"We need to find a new topic of conversation," she says quietly, her eyes flitting briefly to the wall at the end of her small kitchen, the wall we christened in the middle of the night.

"Um, yeah," I say. She must not have asked about when exactly her restriction for _adult activities_ is lifted. I forgot to suggest she ask.

Maybe I should send Merlin a text…

"I was going to ask Dr. Gaius to clarify what Dr. Emrys said when I was released, but I kind of chickened out. It would be like asking my grandfather, you know?" she says.

"I suppose that's true," I say. "What are you going to do with that?"

"I told you already. It goes over the cake."

"Now?" I ask.

"Yes, now," she says. She's laughing at me now.

"Can I do it?"

She looks at me, the pan clutched in her hands, regarding me carefully. "Okay," she says, passing me the pan. "Slowly. Try not to break the top."

"Okay," I say. I start pouring, concentrating very hard.

"Spread it around, get it all over," she says, softly instructing. "Slowly! You don't want it to spill over!"

It got away from me there for a second, and I started pouring too fast. "Sorry," I say quietly, stopping for a second until it soaks in some more. Then I finish the rest. "Done," I declare.

"Good job. Now we wait ten minutes and flip it out onto a plate.

xXx

"You're wearing shorts," I comment when she climbs into her bed, where I'm already waiting for her. I don't take as long to get ready for bed. No hair to braid, I guess.

"You're very warm," she says. "I thought about a tank top as well, actually."

Suggesting she wear even less (like nothing at all) would probably not be a good idea right now. I think she's having the same thought, though. She's blushing slightly.

"It _is_ June first," I say. "Eventually the weather will catch up with the calendar, so just think of it as getting a jump on summertime."

She slides into the bed, cuddling next to me, her head on my shoulder. "You have a very unusual way of thinking about things, do you know that?"

"I do? Well, I guess it makes a certain amount of sense. I have been living a rather unusual life for the past few years."

"Yes, you have."

I sigh, and hold her tightly against me. "I'm ready for some normal now. Well, relative normal. Compared to what I've had. You know what I mean."

"I do," she sighs, turning her head and kissing my chest.

"Too much work to lift your head?" I ask, chuckling. She giggles and kisses my chest again. It's very nice.

"I'm comfortable," she says.

"You're distracting," I say quietly, lifting her chin now to kiss her.

"Sorry," she whispers, leaning up into my kiss.

I think we're both being extra cautious tonight after almost getting carried away last night, because all we do is kiss. But it's still _very_ nice. My hand caresses her face; her hand rests on my chest. I can feel her fingertips dig slightly into my skin, not hurting, just consciously staying put.

Her lips are soft and warm, and I revel in the sweet flavor of her mouth as her tongue slips against mine, dancing slowly.

I groan softly and she sighs, finally pulling away. She kisses my chin before flipping over, facing away from me. I curl around her. She's my security blanket. I think she knows this.

"Good night, darling," she whispers.

"Good night, Guinevere," I whisper back, kissing her hair. "I hope you know how wonderful you are." That sort of slipped out, I think.

She sighs again, contented but strangely, a little sad. "I hope you know how wonderful _you_ are, Arthur," she answers, threading her fingers through mine, holding my hand against her chest.

I don't think anyone has ever said that to me before. It's… humbling. "Thank you," I whisper. I don't know what else to say.

She squeezes my hand. "Sweet dreams."

"You, too."

I feel her fall asleep in my arms. I know the second it happens. I don't mind that she falls asleep before me pretty much all the time. I love that she is that comfortable with me. That she trusts me enough to allow herself to be completely vulnerable and helpless in my arms as she sleeps.

Vulnerable. I'm learning about that. It's not always a bad thing.

Helpless. I've been pretty helpless for about 50 days now, helpless to resist her.

She really _is_ wonderful. And I really want to be able to have the opportunity to earn her love.

To be worthy of her love.

Eight days left.


	53. Day 52

After a visit to the rec center building site, I decide to make a brief detour to Guinevere's shop. We overslept a bit this morning (no shenanigans on my part this time), so we didn't really get a chance to see one another before I had to dash off and she had to dash downstairs.

I think I'll stop in at Hunith's first, though. My Guinevere needs flowers.

But what kind, I wonder? I know some flowers are supposed to have meaning. I guess that's why I have Hunith.

I go inside, and she's working on a display for her Ikebana arrangements. It looks really good. But I don't think that's what I'm in the market for today. "Good morning," I call to her, and she turns and smiles at me.

"Good morning, dear. How is your young lady doing? All better?" she asks.

"Just about, yes. And apparently we have your son to thank for it. He was her surgeon," I say.

"Yes, he mentioned that," she smiles. "I hope you're not upset that he told me about you and Guinevere. He knew that you were a good customer of mine. He only told me that he met you and that he's… helping you sort out some problem?" she says, turning the last part into a question.

 _I'm also helping you because my mother seems to think you're worth helping._ He did say that. I didn't really think anything of it at the time, but apparently he didn't tell her the nature of my problem.

"Um, yes. He's been as helpful as he can be," I say, smiling. "It's a bit of a sticky wicket, unfortunately."

"Magical issues often are," she says simply. "Well, whatever the problem, I hope you are able to get it sorted."

She sounds like she's discussing the weather. But I suppose being the widow of the former dragonlord and the mother of the current dragonlord would give a person a certain comfort level with magic that most non-magic folk don't have.

"Me too, thanks."

"So, what can I help you with this morning, dear? What kind of flowers do you want for your Guinevere today?"

"Um, I'm not sure… something simple, I think…" I start perusing the shop, looking around. A little lost.

"What are you trying to say today?" she asks, following me.

I stop. "I'm not sure. Because of this… problem… I have, we had rather an interesting weekend. It was good, mostly, just… emotional. I'm sorry I can't tell you more about what's going on, but…"

"Not my business, dear," she says, holding up her hands. "Well, you can't go wrong with roses. And red roses, of course, are the ultimate way of telling a girl you love her in the language of flowers." She peeks at me, as if asking _Is that what you want to say?_

"Um… I don't think I'm quite ready for that, thanks," I say. She undoubtedly knows that I've never bought red roses for anyone, ever.

"Well, pink roses mean admiration and fondness, a step back from the red," she motions. "Yellow means friendship, so probably not… White is innocence and purity…"

I clear my throat unconsciously.

"Um, that's a no, then," she laughs. "Orange is… what is orange? Passion and excitement, yes. Oh dear, you're blushing now…" she laughs at me some more. "Let's try another flower, shall we?"

We move along to another section of the cooler.

"Carnations are often overlooked," she says. "But they're lovely flowers, even if their fragrance is a little strange," she chuckles.

"I always thought they were pretty," I say.

"They're sometimes called Gillyflowers," she says. "Not so much anymore, though. I think 'gilly' because of their ruffled edges. Kind of look like gills."

"I can see that," I say. "What do they mean?"

She thinks a moment. "Well, they typically carry the meaning of devoted love and fascination, especially the red ones. Pink ones are particularly appropriate when you want to apologize to someone, say, if you've forgotten something important or forgotten about them in some way." She points to the next pot. "White carnations symbolize constant remembrance, like, 'I'll never forget you.' Oh, silly me, pink ones also are a way to say thank you."

"That sounds… good, I think. What about the yellow? Those are pretty. Cheerful."

"Um, no. They actually mean disappointment, if you can believe that," she laughs. "I often recommend those when it's clear someone is buying flowers out of a sense of obligation."

"Right. No yellow. Pink and white, then, I think. Just a bunch of them, nothing fancy."

She smiles. "Very good."

xXx

I enter Guinevere's shop, bouquet of flowers in hand. Hunith added some green stuff to it, too. Sefa is standing behind the counter and Guinevere is nowhere to be seen.

"Good morning, Sefa," I say, and she looks up.

"Hi, Arthur," she smiles at me.

I was a little nervous about seeing her again. Guinevere said that Sefa might sense a change in us, and I forgot to ask her about that yesterday. We were too busy discussing Merlin's advice.

But she's smiling, so I think I'm okay. I don't think Sefa would fake how she feels about someone or something. Probably wouldn't even occur to her.

"Is Guinevere busy?" I ask.

"I'm not sure, actually," she says, glancing over her shoulder towards the back.

"Can I go back?" I ask.

"Of course," she says.

As I walk past, she touches my elbow. "Whatever you did, it was the right thing," she says. "The hope in your heart… it's bigger now. And… there's something else… with both of you… I can't put my finger on it right now."

"Thank you, Sefa," I say. "You're a good friend to Guinevere, and that means a lot to her. And me."

She angles her head at me. "I was going to tell you to look after Gwen, but… I think you need to let _her_ look after _you._ Does that make sense?"

"It does," I say, chuckling.

"I thought I heard your voice," Guinevere comes out from the back now, wiping her hands on a towel.

"I was just on my way back," I say.

"I held him up, sorry," Sefa says, smiling.

"These are for you, my lady." I hold the bouquet out for her.

"Oh, thank you, Arthur," she says, taking them. "I have the vase from the daisies you sent me back here; I'll just grab that…" She disappears again.

I follow her into the back of the shop. A customer has just come in, so that's probably for the best.

"I was out at the building site, so I thought I'd stop in," I say. She's filling the vase with water.

"That's a hell of a detour," she says, turning the water off and smiling at me. "Your office is on the other side of the building site from me."

I shrug. "Okay, so I missed you."

She puts the flowers in the vase, looking fondly at them. "These were my mother's favorite," she says softly. "I don't really remember, but Dad told me." She looks up at me. "I went through a phase when I was a teenager where I wanted to know everything about her. Almost drove Dad crazy," she smiles.

"I tried that for a while," I say, leaning against her bench. "Did your dad tell you what you wanted to know?"

"Yes," she says. "Uther wouldn't talk, would he?"

"Only if drunk," I sigh. "And we know how _that_ turned out."

"I'm sorry, Arthur," she says.

"It's all right. I didn't mean to bring the room down," I say, smiling and pulling her over into my arms. "I meant to come here and give my favorite person some flowers. And also avoid going back to work right away."

She laughs and kisses me, wrapping her arms around my waist. "I'm glad you came," she says. "Too much rushing around this morning."

"I know. Tonight, we'll remember to set the alarm," I say. "Um, assuming I'm staying over at your place or you're staying at mine, I mean."

"Um, Arthur?"

"Yes?" I ask, confused. Does she not want to sleep together tonight?

"I think we can safely assume that we'll be together every night for at least the next… eight days, all right? I mean, didn't we say that we wanted to spend as much time as possible together, just in case?"

I smile, relieved. "Yes, we did, didn't we? So I guess it's just a matter of where, then, huh?" I lean down and kiss her, a little longer this time.

"Where do Leon and Gwaine live?" she asks.

"Two blocks from me," I say, laughing.

"Your place, then. In case it gets late." She leans against me, her head on my chest.

"Okay. I probably should get back to work before Uther sends out his goons to look for me."

"Uther has goons?" she asks, looking up at me.

I shrug. "Probably. Never know with him." She laughs, and I kiss her forehead. "I'll pick you up after work."

"I'll be ready," she says. I bend down and kiss her again.

"Gwen?" Sefa calls from the doorway.

"I was just leaving," I say, releasing Guinevere from my grasp.

"Have a good afternoon, ladies," I say, walking out to the front of the shop. Annis Carlin is standing there, waiting for Gwen. "Miss Carlin, lovely to see you," I say, smiling at her.

She shakes my hand warmly. "Arthur, this is a surprise!" she exclaims. "What are you… oh, that's right. George Rodor's daughter's friend. I hadn't put two and two together," she laughs.

Guinevere has joined us by now, so I officially introduce them and make my exit. I really need to get back to work now.

xXx

Dinner with Leon and Gwaine was, indeed, entertaining. Leon cooked shrimp sautéed in olive oil with a sun-dried tomato pesto sauce, served over pasta with salad and homemade bread to go with.

It was very good and, of course, Guinevere requested the recipe. Conversation flowed easily, but I noticed Leon giving me odd looks every now and then.

While Guinevere and Gwaine were fussing with the dessert, he corners me.

"You're really happy," he says. He sounds surprised by this.

"Um, yes, why?" I ask. I am curious.

"It's just… I haven't seen you like this in… ever, come to think of it."

"I know," I admit.

"So…?"

He has to pry. "So _what,_ Leon? So, I'm happy. She's amazing; you know this."

"So, do you think you might have an actual future with her? Because she's completely perfect for you. Don't get… like you _get_ and toss her aside."

I sigh. I can tell the truth without giving anything away. "I hope to be able to have a future with her, yes. Is that what you want to hear?"

"Well, what I want to hear is 'Gwen and I are getting married,' but that'll do for now."

"Leon, we've only been together a couple months," I say.

"So? When you know, you know. Look at Gwaine and me. We're already living together."

"Well, that's because you lot are crazy," I say, shoving his shoulder.

"Crazy in love," he shoots back. I respond by making gagging noises and clutching my throat.

"What are you two up to out here?" Gwen asks. She and Gwaine are walking into the living room, each carrying two plates.

"Leon is being a total girl," I say, taking a plate from Guinevere.

"And Arthur is being a total twat," Leon says, taking his plate. "Come on, let's eat dessert and watch zombies."

"I told you we wouldn't miss _Undead Zone,_ " I say, grinning at Guinevere.

Some people might have issues watching a grisly program about zombies while eating dessert, but apparently none of us do. In fact, Guinevere even comments that she should have made red velvet cake instead, which makes Gwaine laugh so hard he almost chokes on his cake.

"This is some bloody good cake, though," Leon says.

"Thank you," Gwen says. "It's not that difficult, actually."

"Well, now you have something to trade for my recipe," he says.

"Fair enough," she smiles.

"I need another piece," Gwaine says, standing. "Anyone else?"

We all decline, so he just shrugs and goes to cut himself another slice.

It turns out to be really fun watching _Undead Zone_ with them. Gwaine provides a running commentary throughout the show that is actually very funny, and by the time it's over, Guinevere is holding her side from laughing so much.

"Are you all right?" I ask when we are in the car.

"Yes, why?" she asks.

"Your side. You were holding it before when we were laughing so bloody much."

"Oh, that. It's fine now, I promise."

"Good," I nod, pulling into my parking lot. "I think it's good we left half of what was left of that cake with them. I may have to have some for breakfast."

"You are not having rum cake for breakfast," she says, looking at me like I'm crazy. "Although, it would make some brilliant French toast…"

My hand falls from the door handle. I've been rendered weak by that thought. "Oh, my God."

She laughs and opens her door, not waiting for me.

"I wouldn't have even thought of doing something like that," I say, quickly getting out of the car.

"Come now, you're a creative person," she goads me. I take her bag and she carries what's left of the cake.

"For buildings. Not food."

"Doesn't matter," she says. "You just have to learn to apply that creativity in different ways. I bet you'd make a fabulous gingerbread house."

"Hmm. Never thought about that."

We flop into bed, tired but happy, bellies full of shrimp and cake. Guinevere did further alter her sleeping attire, wearing a tank top with her shorts this time.

"Still hot, I take it?" I ask, smirking at her.

"Well, since you insist that I sleep wearing you like a cape…"

I frown. "Sorry."

She climbs into bed and snuggles up to me. "Don't be. I like it, actually. My only complaint is that it gets a little warm, honest. I love spending all night in your arms."

"You fit so nicely in them," I say, squeezing her to illustrate my point. "It's like you…"

"Belong here?" she asks softly. "I know." She sighs. "I'm still thinking about the things Merlin told you."

Oh. It was _that_ kind of sigh.

"And?"

"I think I've got some ideas, but I'm not sure yet. It's… tricky." I can feel her scowling against my chest.

"No kidding," I say. I'm not exactly sure what is _specifically_ tricky in her mind, but it sounds like she wants to wait until she's certain before divulging any information. I'm okay with that, actually.

She leans up and kisses me a few times, softly at first, then playful, nipping my lower lip a little, rubbing noses with me.

"We'll get this sorted," she whispers. "We have to."

"Yeah," I agree. She's basically lying on top of me right now. I need to text Merlin tomorrow and make sure we have the all-clear. I run my hands up and down her back, ending with giving her bottom a squeeze.

"Arthur!" she squeals. "I'd better get down," she says, rolling off of me. "You make a lovely mattress, though."

"Great," I say. Actually, I don't mind her lying on top of me at all. We settle in, spooned together as usual.

"Arthur?" she asks quietly after a minute.

"Yes?"

"I know what the flowers mean. Thank you."

Of course she would know. "You're welcome, Love. Good night, Guinevere," I say, kissing her hair.

"Good night, Arthur. Sleep well."

She knows she doesn't have to wish me a good night's sleep when she's here, but I think it's become a habit for her. I'm not going to stop her. I love that she cares that much.

I love that she wants to help me lift this curse. I suppose she benefits from it as well, but I think I get the better prize. I get her. She only gets me.

I love that my friends love her and that she likes them.

I love everything about her.

She sighs contentedly in my arms. It's a wonderful sound.

My kingdom to be able to spend every night sleeping just like this, with her in my arms, keeping me safe, keeping the bad dreams away.

Keeping hope alive in my heart.


	54. Day 53

Busy day. I start working on the _real_ drawing for my school addition design, having finalized my initial sketch. Guinevere was busy all day, too. I called her around lunchtime and she said that they'd hardly been able to sit down all morning. I reminded her to not push herself, and I could _hear_ her rolling her eyes at me over the phone, I swear. So I think she's pretty much recovered.

But that reminded me that I was going to suck up my pride and text Merlin.

_A: I have a question for you._

Not quite sure how I want to phrase my question, actually. I'm still mulling it over when he responds.

_M: You're good to go._

_M: Pervert._

I laugh. Well, I guess I didn't have to ask.

_A: I'm the pervert? You knew what I was going to ask._

_M: I'm not a pervert, I'm a wizard._

_A: Right._

_M: That's my story and I'm sticking to it._

Well, at least now I have the definitive word.

xXx

She's staying at my place again tonight, and since it's a really nice, warm evening, we decide to go for a walk and see what strikes us for supper.

Guinevere is wearing shorts. I get to look at her excellent legs.

I'm trying to decide how to tell her I talked to Merlin when she tugs my hand.

"Hey, let's try this food truck for supper," she suggests, pointing to a large van parked near a playground.

"Um, okay," I say, inspecting the side of the truck. It's got a ridiculous cartoon drawing of Admiral Ackbar from Return of the Jedi on the side. He's holding up a burrito-like thing in his hand/claw/flipper/whatever he's got, and the words _It's a Wrap!_ are emblazoned beside him.

It's so stupid you have to laugh. I peruse the menu and they have a selection of wrap sandwiches. Of course.

"Hey, how's it going? What can I get for you?" an American-accented voice greets us, and the man inside the truck pops his head out of the window.

"Umm…" Guinevere presses her lips together, and steps over. "Can you tell me what is on the Buffalo chicken wrap?"

"Sure. It's shredded rotisserie chicken smothered in Buffalo sauce with provolone cheese, lettuce, and ranch dressing. Comes with a few celery sticks on the side." He smiles down at her.

"I'd like that, but… could you do the dressing on the side, please?" she asks.

"Sure, cutie, anything you want," he says, grinning.

Cutie?

I step up and put my arm around her shoulders. Yes, I'm staking my claim.

"And for you?"

"What's on the barbecue brisket wrap?"

"Shredded beef with barbecue sauce, topped with coleslaw, and wrapped in a sun-dried tomato tortilla. Comes with a little cup of applesauce on the side."

"That sounds really good, I'll have that. Oh, also a Coke and a Diet, please."

He yells the order back to someone else inside and I pay. Then Guinevere decides to talk to this bloke some more.

"You're American?"

"Yup," he nods, handing me my change.

"What brings you to Camelot?"

Stop talking to him. He's far too interested in you. I pocket my change and return my arm to its place around her shoulders.

He leans forward, his elbows on the counter. "Someone told me you were here," he grins.

She laughs. "Well, I'm flattered, but I am spoken for," she says.

Tell him to call you in a week, I think bitterly. Guinevere must be reading my thoughts again, because she reaches up and just gently touches my hand on her shoulder.

"I can see that, sorry, man," he says, apologizing to me now. "Just having fun, you know?"

"Right," I say.

"When the only thing I have to look at all day is Eddie's ugly ass," he nods to the inside of the truck, and I hear a "hey!" in protest from the back, "I just can't help but flirt a bit when a pretty girl comes along."

"Well, thank you for the ego boost," Guinevere says.

"You are quite welcome," he says. Then he disappears for a moment and returns with two little paper boat things with our food in them. "Here you go."

I take them from him and he hands Gwen our drinks. "Come back anytime," he says, winking at her.

Now I just roll my eyes.

He laughs. "Honestly, man, if she wasn't with you, there's a good chance I would have even flirted with you. You're one seriously good-looking dude."

"Um… thanks?" I say, taken completely by surprise. Guinevere laughs loudly at this.

"You've got a great laugh," he says now, laughing a little. It's hard not to join in with her laughter. It's infectious.

"Well, thanks for providing me something to laugh at," she says, waving.

We start walking away, inspecting our wares. "You handled that well," she says. "You know, having another bloke tell you that you're handsome."

"Well, it's not the first time I've had a guy try to chat me up," I say, shrugging.

"It probably helps that your best friend is gay, huh?"

"I guess. You get used to it. It's kind of flattering, to be honest. But it's only happened a few times. Occasionally I'd be a sport and go with Leon to Cenred's or… what else have I done? Oh. That wine tasting. And that bathhouse…"

"What?" she exclaims.

"Kidding about the bathhouse," I say, grinning at her.

She shakes her head at me and sits at a nearby bench.

We tuck in to our food. It's really amazingly good. Well, mine is, at least. Gwen looks like she's really enjoying hers as well. I almost wish the food wasn't so good, because then we'd have no reason to come back and deal with that bizarre American.

But I do want to come back sometime and try the chicken parmesan wrap. That was my second choice.

"'Someone told me you were here,'" I quote, muttering under my breath. Guinevere laughs openly at me. "That's a terrible line," I say.

"Oh, and I suppose your 'allow me' was better?" she asks, arching an eyebrow.

"That was an act of chivalry," I say.

" _That_ was a blatant chat-up," she says, still laughing at me. "Can I try a bite of that?"

"Sure," I say, holding it over so she can take a bite. "It's messy," I warn her.

"So is mine," she says, offering me a bite. She's been dipping her wrap daintily in the ranch dressing, but offers me a dressing-free bite. She must have noticed my general distaste for salad dressings last night at dinner.

I hesitate. "Is it very spicy?"

"It's not bad, Wimpy," she says, goading me. Bugger, now I have to try it.

"That is good," I say. "I like the cheese." I reach for my drink now, trying to be cool about the fact that my bloody mouth is on bloody fire.

"The cheese is what makes it, I think," she says. "Try the applesauce, that might work better," she offers.

"I'm fine," I say.

"You're lying," she says, taking a deliberately large bite out of her wrap, complete with yummy sounds. Now it's my turn to laugh at her.

"You know, you were wrong about something back there," I say.

"What's that?"

"Leon isn't my best friend."

She takes a drink of her soda. "He's not?"

"Not anymore," I say. "You are."

She smiles at me, wipes her hands on her napkin and reaches across to touch my cheek. "That's so sweet, Arthur."

"It's the truth. I think I realized it when you were in hospital," I say. I know it was, because that's when I also had that _other_ realization about her. "I spend all my time with you because you're the person I _want_ to spend all my time with. You also know me better than anyone ever has."

"Really? Even your father?"

"My father doesn't know me that well, actually. It's kind of sad, if you think about it. When I was growing up, we were more like roommates. I used to hang out at Percival's when I wanted a mother and Leon's when I wanted a father."

"Is Leon's mum gone as well?"

"No, she's there, and she's great. But his father was an actual father. Interested. Supportive. He was even cool when Leon came out."

"Where's Percival's father?" she asks, crunching into a piece of celery.

"Gone. They divorced when he was about four. Walked out, never fought for shared custody or anything. I think he lives in Australia now. Percival hasn't heard from or spoken to his father in probably 15 years."

"Wow. Is that why he's so close with his mother?"

"Yeah. I don't know all the details as to why they split up, but I suspect he left her for some other bird. Which blows my mind. Percival's mum is amazing."

"I'd love to meet her," she says.

"Well, if he and Sefa get married, you probably will," I say. Percival is already ring shopping, but I don't mention this to Guinevere. At least not right now. I should, though, because Guinevere would be able to help him better than anyone, most likely. Besides, Percival said he's just sort of perusing rings right now anyway, not looking seriously yet. He definitely wants to marry her, but he says he wants to at least wait until jousting season is over at the end of August so he can devote more time to her first.

I don't even want to think about Percival and Sefa getting married, though. Because it will be after Day 60. Guinevere and I would both be in the wedding party. If we don't lift the curse, it will be rather painful.

"Hopefully before," she says.

"Probably will happen," I nod. "But anyway, _yes,_ you are my best friend."

"I think you're mine, too, actually," she says. "I just never really thought about it before."

This makes me feel good. Sad, but good. "You're much prettier than Leon is, anyway," I say, grinning, teasing to lift my mood.

"But not prettier than Gwaine," she giggles.

I laugh. "Well, no one's prettier than Gwaine; let's be real for a second here."

She laughs harder.

"Honestly, the first time I saw him, I was like, 'Bloody hell, that is one seriously handsome bloke,' and I wondered what fashion advert he had fallen out of."

"Stop," she gasps, laughing.

"I sometimes wonder if he's even real," I say. "But then I hear Leon complaining about how he tends to leave his towel on the floor after he showers and that he snores something terrible, and it makes me feel better."

She laughs, setting the end of her wrap down. I think she's done.

"Full?" I ask.

"No. I want dessert," she says, giving me this impish grin that is impossibly cute.

"They have dessert?" I ask, peering at the truck. American Bloke is hanging out of the window, watching the world around him. He waves me over.

"Your new friend wants to talk to you," Gwen says, pointing.

"Yes, I see that. Wonder what's up?" I stand and start walking over to the truck again.

"Get that one with the banana and peanut butter while you're there," she calls after me. I turn and nod so she knows I've heard her.

"Yes?" I ask, walking up to the window again.

"You guys want some dessert?" he asks. He couldn't have heard us from that distance…

"Yes, actually, we were just discussing that. She said something about bananas and peanut butter," I say, looking at the menu. Oh, bugger. Banana, peanut butter, _and_ chocolate.

"Good choice," he says, grinning. He disappears, says something to the mysterious Eddie inside, and returns. "No, man, this is on me," he says as I pull my wallet out to pay.

"Oh," I say, surprised.

"My way of apologizing for hitting on your girl. I feel kind of bad about it."

"It's fine. I know she's cute," I say, chuckling.

"Seems like she's a really great person, too. You're lucky," he says.

"Lucky" is usually not a word I equate with myself. "When it comes to her, yes, I am," I say, smiling and looking back at her. She's just sitting there, watching me. I wave. She smiles and blows me a kiss.

"See? I had no chance at all," he says, laughing. He disappears again and returns with this… thing sent from the gods. "Here you go. On the house, with two forks. Enjoy."

"Thanks, mate."

"My name's Dave. Come back anytime," he says.

I reach up and shake his hand. "Arthur. That's Guinevere."

"Nice to meet you, man. We're on the web, too, so you know where to find us." He points to the side of the truck where it shows that he is on Facebook and Twitter.

"I'll make sure to 'Like' or 'Follow' or whatever," I say. "I need to try that chicken parmesan wrap."

"That's my personal favorite," he says.

"Have a nice night," I say, waving.

"You, too."

I walk back to Guinevere, looking at what he's given me. It's hot, with molten chocolate and peanut butter oozing out of the middle where it's been cut in half. It's also been liberally dusted with powdered sugar.

I set it down in front of Guinevere.

"Bloody hell," she says.

"I know, right? He gave it to us for free, too."

"That was awfully nice of him," she says, poking her fork into one half.

"He said he felt bad for chatting you up in front of me like that. He also said that his name is Dave and that we should come back anytime."

"Ah. How will we know where he is?" she asks. "Oh, my God, this is good."

"That _other_ magic called the internet," I say. "He's really not a bad guy, actually. I think he mainly gets bored in there."

"Well, we'll have to recommend him so he gets more business," she says.

I hadn't thought about that. But that's Guinevere, always thinking of how to help others. "Yes, we will," I say. I take a bite. "Holy shit," I say.

"That's a very American turn of phrase," she laughs at me.

"I felt it appropriate, given our dining experience tonight," I say, taking another bite. It's bloody amazing. "American food may not be terribly healthy, but bugger me, is it good."

"Hey, that's my half!" she says, pointing her fork threateningly at my hand.

"Oh, sorry," I say, returning to my own half of the dessert.

xXx

After finding a restroom to clean up after that ridiculous dessert (we were both a little sticky), we decide to keep walking.

Guinevere decides to start asking questions.

"So, did you have, like, a 'type'?"

"What do you mean? Like only little caramel-skinned beauties like you?"

"Wait, I met Vivian. Never mind," she remembers, laughing.

"Couldn't limit myself that way. When I had the luxury of choice, yes, I did actually gravitate towards blondes. Cliché, I know."

"But since the curse?"

"Blonde, brunette, ginger, tall, short, skinny, chunky, and every shade from porcelain white to chocolate brown," I say. "Depended on where I was and who caught my eye at the time."

"Did you ever get rejected? Like, were you ever worried that you wouldn't find someone? What was the rule you said? Get a phone number?"

"Yeah, I had to get a number that I intended to call the next day. And there were one or two times where I was a little worried, yes." I laugh. "That's how I ended up with Vivian, actually. It was a dinner party at Father's. Her father is friends with mine. She was there. It was around 10:30 p.m., and all the other viable birds had either brushed me off or had gone before I could try. I knew she was always kind of interested, so I just sucked it up and did it."

"That's terrible, Arthur."

"So was she. You met her."

She snorts. "Yeah. Two months with her. That's like punishment on top of punishment."

"But I was terrible, too, so I guess it's fair," I add.

"I don't think you're terrible. I don't think you were terrible anymore when you were with Vivian, either," she says.

"Probably not," I say. "I figured out about a year ago that living my life the way I had been was not good."

"With Elena?" she asks.

I nod. "That was when I started really hating this curse. About Day 25 with Elena. I decided to try and reform. Thought it might help. I already had my rules in place, but… I started… _caring_ more. Feeling worse about having to end things every 60 days. Well, most of the time, anyway. I would have ended things with Vivian sooner than I did, had I been allowed to. There were a couple of others like that, too, unfortunately."

"Anyone ever try to break up with you?"

"Of course. Those were the worst, because I'd have to convince the girl to let me stay, give me another chance, whatever, and then I'd have to turn around and end things later. Like a jerk."

"Wow, yeah," she agrees.

"Thank you for agreeing so heartily," I say.

"Just being honest, darling."

"I know. I wouldn't want you to be any other way," I say, lifting our joined hands and kissing hers. "Once a girl did break up with me on Day 60… but I still kind of made it happen."

"Oh, this should be good," she says.

I tell her about the "I think I might be gay" breakup line, and how that one backfired on me when she saw me 60 days later with another girl. Her confrontation with me made her successor break up with me.

"Fortunate timing, I guess…" I say. "I do feel badly about that one, though. I never used that excuse again, obviously."

"That would be funny if it wasn't so pathetic," she says.

"Well, from what I heard, those two particular girls have since hooked up anyway, so I guess the joke's on me," I say, shrugging. "Leon told me he saw them at Cenred's a month later."

"No!" she exclaims. Now she laughs. "Joke's on you, indeed."

We walk around the park, watching the children play, people walking their dogs. Occasionally Guinevere will ask if she can pet one. She seems to like dogs, and they seem to like her.

Of course they do.

"Am I number 13 or number 14?" she asks. Bloody hell, she's unrelenting.

"You don't really want to know all these things, Guinevere…" I say, trying to stave off the flow of questions.

"Nice try, Arthur. The way I see it, you owe me a shitload of answers. You've been dealing with this for two years. _I've_ been dealing with it for four days. I have some catching up to do," she says, stopping and looking up at me.

"Fair enough," I say with a sigh. I can't really deny her anything, anyway. "So what was this about a number?"

"Well, I did the math." She pulls out her mobile and opens the calculator app. "And, 365 times two divided by 60 is… 12.166 repeating. You said it's been just over two years. So, am I girl number 13 or number 14?"

I sigh. "Fourteen. Not counting Morgause," I answer quietly.

"And also not counting the flock of birds before her," she says.

"I don't have a number for them," I say. I feel about two inches high right now. I know that's not her intent, but it's how I feel. There's a bench nearby, and I sit heavily.

"I didn't think you did," she says, sitting beside me. "I'm not trying to make you feel bad, Arthur, honest. I see that I have, and I'm sorry. I'm just… still trying to get a handle on all of this."

"I know. And _you_ didn't make me feel bad. _I_ feel bad about how I used to be. It was all my choice, you know? I _chose_ to make women my playthings. I _chose_ to be a… man-whore. I know it was wrong. Those girls were people. They had feelings. In my arrogance, I was living under the assumption that pretty girls were on this earth for my benefit. Like I was somehow _entitled_ to them, you know?"

"Actually, no, but I follow."

"Of course you can't understand it, _you're_ not like that. You're a good person and always have been."

"You're a good person, Arthur."

"I am now, I guess. I wasn't then. The only thing I know I did right was protect myself. I was a slag, but I wasn't an idiot. Shit, the money I spent on condoms…"

She actually chuckles a little now. "I suppose that is something to be thankful for. You'd be in a whole lot worse shape had you gotten yourself infected with something terrible."

"Sometimes I think I should have. I certainly deserved it."

"No one deserves that," she says, taking my hand and holding it in her lap. "Anyway, Morgana took care of your punishment for you."

"True."

"So, Elena made you realize that women weren't your personal sex toys?" she asks.

"Yeah," I say. "She was probably the first person I was with under this curse that I really didn't want to break up with. There were a couple of others with which I could have stayed longer, but she was the first one that I was truly… upset about. But I did it anyway, and I felt terrible."

"Is that the reason she moved to America?"

"I don't know. I hope not. I don't know if I want to know. I do know that it took me having my choice taken away from me to realize that I was making bad choices my whole adult life. I suppose I should thank Morgana for that." I hang my head and scuffle my feet on the ground, almost losing one of my flip-flops in the process.

"So what makes me different from Elena?" she asks softly. "You said that you broke up with her anyway, even though you didn't want to. You already told me that you're not going to find someone new after my Day 60, so I assume that means you're not going to actually break up with me. Why?"

Because I love you. Because I love you and if I can't be with you, I don't want to be with anybody.

The words stick in my throat. Part of me wants to say them, but I'm just too… scared. I'm scared if I say them, she'll disappear in a puff of purple smoke, leaving me here, alone, on this bench.

"Because… because you're you," I settle on. This is not a satisfactory answer, I can see that. "Guinevere, what I felt for Elena, what I _thought_ I felt for Elena… pales in comparison to… what I feel for you."

"Oh," she says, meeting my eyes for a second. Then she looks down. Is she disappointed? Was she expecting the Big Words? Surely she knows that I can't say them. I won't. No, I _can't._ I just came pretty bloody close, but that's the best I can do.

It's just _too bloody painful._

She kisses my cheek. "I know this is hard for you," she whispers.

All I can do is nod. "Let's go home," I say. I don't correct myself this time.

"Okay," she says.

We stand and start walking back towards my condo.

"Last question, I promise. For tonight, anyway," she says after a time.

"Okay," I say.

"Did you ever wonder if maybe your… past womanizing is a way of compensating for you not having a mother? Like, you were seeking out female affection of _any_ kind because you never remember getting any from your mum?"

"That's pretty twisted," I say. "But there may be something to that. Could also be why I tended to prefer blondes. Mum was blonde."

"I gathered that. Uther's gray, but his hair was dark once, I can tell. And since you're blonde, it stood to reason."

"Yeah. Morgana has dark hair, like Father."

"Mmm," she nods. "It was just a thought. Boys often have issues in the female department when their mums are absent or abusive."

I nod. I've heard the same thing. I just never thought (admitted?) that I would be in that camp. "You should be a therapist, not a jeweler."

"I like being a jeweler," she says. "There at least I _know_ I can fix things."

xXx

We cuddle in front of the telly for awhile, not talking much. I think we both feel that we've talked plenty tonight, so we're just soaking in each other's company.

There is something I can tell her, though. I lean down and kiss her cheek. "I sent a text to Merlin today," I say, running my nose lightly along her cheek, up to her temple and down. She smells so good. She always does.

"Oh?" she asks, turning slightly. "What for?"

I hook my finger under her chin and answer with a kiss, long, slow, and soft, luxuriating in her, telling her my intentions without words.

"Oh, _that,_ " she gasps, turning in my arms to kiss me more, harder, more urgently. My hands slide up her back, under her tank top. I'm still dressed, but she's in her pajamas already. No bra. I groan.

I grope for the remote control and turn the TV off. She climbs off of me and takes my hand, leading me back to the bedroom.

"I'm glad you contacted him," she says, whipping the covers back and sitting on my bed, leaning back on her elbows, watching me pull my t-shirt and shorts off. "This is a good show." She grins at me.

I prowl over to her in my boxers, climbing over her, leaning her back on the bed with just my proximity. She scoots so she's not sideways anymore, giggling as I crawl over her body.

My lips find her neck and the giggling stops. I kiss and suck at her neck, my hands working her shirt up, still careful because I don't know how tender her little puncture wounds are.

She sits up and yanks her top off, tossing it to the floor. Then she grabs my head and captures my lips with hers, kissing me hungrily. I lay her back down again, one hand finding her breast, reacquainting itself with the soft mound.

"Oh, so good." The words fall from my lips unchecked as she trails her lips over to my ear. She nips the edge and sucks my earlobe, sending tingles all through me, heading straight into my pants. I press my hips into her, letting her feel what she's doing to me.

And what she is doing is driving me absolutely crazy. Her talented tongue is skimming the outer shell of my ear, and – oh, God – in it now, pulling a groan from my throat.

My hand squeezes her breast, my thumb skimming her nipple. She finally releases my ear and I scoot down, closing my lips over the taut peak that I was just teasing.

"Mmm," she moans, her fingers running through my hair. My hand moves down to pull at her shorts and panties, attempting to tug them both off at once. She helps, and in seconds she is naked beneath me.

I lean up and take a moment to gaze down at her, how lovely she is, beautiful and sexy and wonderful.

Then I'm hit by a momentary pang, painful and sharp, and my eyes close tightly.

"Arthur," she whispers, her soft, slender fingers dancing across my chest, "don't think about it now. Come back to me, Love." Her hands move up and pull my shoulders down, and I feel her lips on mine, soft and sweet. She pushes one of my shoulders and I roll onto my back, letting her take over, letting myself get lost in her.

Her fingers and her lips are indeed magic, and as I feel her reaching for my boxer briefs, my moment of grief disappears in a Guinevere-scented cloud.

I lift my hips to help her remove my pants, and she is back over me before I even miss her, covering me with her body, letting her hair cascade over my face and neck as she kisses me.

I run my hands up and down her back, her sides, reveling in the feel of her skin beneath my palms. I cup her bum for a moment or two, gently flexing my fingers into the firm mounds, then I slide one hand around to the front, my fingers teasing her inner thighs for a moment.

"Arthur," she gasps, pleading slightly, flexing her hips into my hovering hand.

I slip my fingers into her folds, wet and hot and waiting for me. She moans and kisses my neck; then her hand finds me.

Her hand is slender but so strong, and bloody hell she knows what to do with it. I groan as she strokes me, moving in time with my fingers as they slide in and out of her.

I don't think I can take any more. I need her. Now.

I remove my hand and gently move her hand from me, kissing her fingers.

Then I roll us again so I am over her. I look down at her lovely face, kiss her once, and then tuck my face into her neck for a moment. "I need you so much, Guinevere," I mutter, hoping that she knows I mean more than just physically.

"I know, Arthur," she whispers back. She does know I mean more.

I kiss her neck a few times, settling myself between her knees. She reaches down for me again, and I lift my head, kissing her lips as she positions me at her opening. I keep kissing her as I enter her, and she moans into my mouth.

"Oh," I grunt, tearing my lips away for a second as I begin to move, slowly at first, but it's not long before I'm picking up my pace, moving swiftly within her. She meets me thrust for thrust, her hands on my chest, in my hair, roaming everywhere, leaving my skin hot and sensitive in their wake.

"Arthur," she gasps, moving her legs up around my waist.

Oh, I like that. I slide my hand along her thigh, firm under her soft skin, finally grasping her hip, my fingers digging into her backside. I bend down and kiss her, leaning on one hand.

I can feel her body trembling beneath mine now. Quivering. She pulls her lips from mine.

"Oh…" she gasps, and I feel her nails biting into my shoulders. It feels strangely good, and I thrust harder, driving us both to the edge.

"God," she croaks, then, and just when I don't think I can hold on any longer, she cries out and explodes around me.

I follow immediately with a low groan, and she pulls me down, wrapping her arms around my shoulders.

We cling to each other, riding out the ecstasy together. I slide my hand under her shoulders, holding her while she holds me. I tuck my face back into her neck, my nose in her hair.

I don't know how long we stay like this. I feel her legs drop down from around my waist at some point. Apart from that, we just hold one another, joined.

Eventually I move, rolling carefully to the side. My body feels cold without hers against it. But then she moves, curling against me.

"Mmm," she purrs, kissing my shoulder.

"Yeah," I agree. I kiss her forehead. "That was good."

She laughs.

"That was a dumb thing to say, wasn't it?" I say, and I laugh, too.

"Kind of stating the obvious," she says. "I'll be back in a minute." She kisses me once, then twice, before heading to the bathroom.

"This is a good show," I call after her, watching her walk away from me.

Her laughter disappears into the loo with her.

Wow. It was even better now that she knows. I don't have to hide anything from her. She saw when I was troubled, and she brought me out of it.

She does have magic of her own.

She comes out of the loo, securing the end of her braid with an elastic band.

"This is a better show," I say, grinning at her. She laughs again.

I climb out of the bed now. "My turn," I say. I need to pee. Maybe clean up a little, too.

I take care of things and return to bed. She hasn't put her pajamas back on. I was hoping she wouldn't. I like feeling her skin against mine. Even if we do get all sweaty.

"Assuming I'm going to keep you warm?" I ask, dragging my finger lightly down her chest, between her breasts.

"Not assuming anything. I know you will," she says, leaning over to kiss me. "You always do."

I sigh and pull her into my arms, holding her to my chest. "Sorry I…"  
"Don't," she gently stops me. "You don't need to apologize. I know what happened, and I know why. It's understandable, and it's all right, I promise."

"You are too good to me," I say. She's too good _for_ me. I squeeze her tightly.

"You don't think you deserve goodness?" she asks, looking up at me.

"Not really," I say. "Well, sometimes, but…"

"Arthur, you deserve as much goodness, as much happiness as anyone else out there," she says, leaning up on her elbow to look down at me. "You just have a slightly more difficult path to get there."

"It… it makes me feel good that you think so," I say. "It gives me hope." Hope, the hope that Sefa says is getting bigger. Because of my Guinevere.

"Hang on to that," she says. She leans down and kisses me.

Her kisses are my therapy, healing and comforting. I hope to never have to give them up.

Guinevere lies back down, her head on my shoulder, arm around my waist, one leg hooked over mine. Then she slips the arm she's lying on up in front of her and touches her fingers to mine where I'm holding her shoulder. I reach my fingers forward, holding her fingers beneath mine.

I don't normally sleep on my back, but she seems so content and comfortable that I stay put.

I turn my head and kiss her forehead and whisper, "Good night."

"Mmm," she mumbles, drifting already. She really is good at sleeping, I have to give her that. Either that or I wore her out. "Sleep good," she manages, surprising me a little, because I thought she was nearly asleep.

She drifts off a few minutes later. I follow quickly, her words echoing in my head.

I deserve happiness, she said.

I know that Guinevere is my happiness.

I hope I can find my way down that path.


	55. Day 54

I spent the morning at the building site again, checking things out. I like it there, I've discovered. They even let me operate the bulldozer.

As I walk into my office, I realize that I haven't heard from Guinevere yet today. I hope our little Q&A session didn't put her off. We only have six days left.

Of course, the activities _after_ the Q &A session didn't seem to indicate she was put off at all. There was even that little unexpected Round Two around midnight.

But maybe now, in the light of day after a good night's sleep…

I pull out my mobile.

_A: Been at the building site this morning. How has your day been?_

I send her a quick text and then fire up my computer to try and get some work done.

_G: Busy. Building going well?_

_A: Yes, very. I'll take you over there again this weekend, if you want._

I set my phone back down. By the time I realize she hasn't returned my text, I'm coming back from lunch. That's odd. But she did say she was busy.

Finally, just after two, she texts.

_G: Gotta run to the dentist. Cracked a filling on a stupid peanut M &M._

Oh, okay. Must have been a bad M&M. Sometimes you get a bad one that's either hard or has a nasty peanut inside. That's why I stay away from the peanut ones. I like them, but no matter what, the nasty peanut is always inside the very last M&M I eat.

_A: Sorry. Hope it's an easy fix._

She doesn't text back. I assume it's because she's driving to the dentist.

"Arthur," my father appears in my doorway.

"Yeah," I say, looking over.

"Don't forget we have that dinner with Agravaine du Bois tonight."

Ugh. "I didn't forget," I say.

"I know you don't particularly like him, but he is an important client of ours," he says.

"Of _yours_ , Father. You just drag me along because you don't like him, either."

"I think he's a weed," he says, frowning.

"He's a wanker," I say.

"And he's on wife number four, now. She'll be there. Probably half his age, I'd wager."

"Great," I say. At least I'll be able to go home to Guinevere afterward. That will get me through the evening, knowing she's waiting for me. We're staying at her flat tonight. I think tomorrow night, too.

xXx

Dinner is as dreadful as I feared. Agravaine's new wife is younger than I am, and at first she appears to be a fluffy nitwit. However, I learn quickly that she's not what she seems at all. She's clearly only interested in his money.

Her name is Brandi. "With an 'I,'" she makes sure to tell us. At first, I wonder if she can spell the rest of it, but as the evening wears on I can see hints of her façade cracking here and there. Any time anything to do with finances is discussed, she perks up. If Agravaine notices her interest, she just gushes, pushes her tits at him and compliments him on how smart he is.

I also catch her undressing me with her eyes a few times. It makes my skin crawl.

I excuse myself to the restroom after I've finished eating. I want to text Guinevere. I also need to get the hell away from Mr. and the future former Mrs. Du Bois before I stab myself in the eye with my fork.

I send Guinevere a text , leaning against the wall in the corridor outside the loos.

_A: How are you feeling?_

_G: My mouth is still half-numb._

_A: I'm sorry. :( I wish I were there with you._

_G: Dinner not going well?_

_A: Food is good. That's about it. I hate this guy, and his wife is a gold-digging twat._

_G: Sounds like a blast._

_A: I escaped to the loo for a few. Wanted to check on you._

_G: Thank you. See you soon, I hope._

_A: Not soon enough._

I head into the restroom. I figure I may as well do what I said I was going to do.

When I come out, Brandi is hovering. Lying in wait. She zeros in on me like I've got a target on my chest.

Perhaps somewhere lower.

"You're very sexy," she says, attempting to press her body against mine.

"Well, you're very married, and I'm very spoken for," I say, backing away, my hands raised.

"I don't see a ring on _your_ finger," she says.

"But there is one on yours," I argue. "Which is about the only thing you value in your marriage, I'd guess."

That stops her. It also confuses her a minute while she thinks about what I've said.

"I need to get back to the table." I attempt to escape while her brain is occupied with thinking.

"We could have fun together, you and me," she says. "With Aggy's money, we could…"

I turn. "I'm not having this conversation," I say, and walk back to the table.

"Arthur, I thought you'd gotten lost," Father says when I return, giving me a look that indicates he doesn't appreciate having been left alone.

"Sorry. I took a minute to check on Guinevere," I apologize. Brandi has returned to the table as well now.

"I thought she was all recovered," my father says, puzzling.

"She is," I say. Oh, she most definitely is. "But she cracked a filling this afternoon and had to run to the dentist to have it fixed."

"Oh, dear, how did she do that?"

"Apparently an unusually hard peanut M&M," I say, shrugging.

"See? I was just telling Brandi the other day that candy is bad for your teeth," Agravaine pipes up.

"Only if you don't brush," Uther supplies. "Sounds to me like Guinevere just had a bit of bad luck, that's all."

"Yeah," I nod. "She's good, though. Says her mouth is still half-numb."

"Is that your girlfriend?" Brandi asks, a picture of innocence.

"Yes," I say rather pointedly.

"What was she just recovering from?" Agravaine asks.

"She had to have her appendix removed a week ago Sunday," I say. "She's just fine now. Back to work and everything."

"Oh, she _works?_ " Brandi asks, saying the word like it tastes bad. To her, it probably does.

"Of course she does," Father says. I half-expect him to say "Duh," after it. Of course he doesn't, but it's implied in his tone. "She owns her own business, in fact. Lovely girl."

I smile. "She makes jewelry," I tell Agravaine, ignoring Brandi completely. "She does excellent work."

"Oh, Arthur, I didn't tell you, I had the misfortune to run into Catrina Tregor last week. She was wearing a beautiful necklace and earrings. I complimented them, and she told me that your Guinevere made them for her. Not in those exact words, obviously."

"Oh, yes, she was working on that set when we first started dating," I say.

"Well, it was very nice work," Father says.

"I'll tell her you said so." I smile, feeling a strange sense of pride for her.

"Yes, because I'm sure the opinion of an old widower like me is going to be important to her," he chuckles.

"One never knows," I say.

Then Brandi yawns, loudly and dramatically, registering her boredom like an unpleasant child.

"Oh, are you tired, Dumpling?" Agravaine asks, fawning over her.

I look at my father. He actually rolls his eyes. Then he summons the waiter for the check.

Thank God.

xXx

Guinevere takes a little longer than usual to buzz me in when I arrive. When I get upstairs, I learn that it was because she'd dozed off on the couch.

"Hey, sleepyhead," I say when I see her. She looks very tired. More tired than I would expect for just having a filling repaired or replaced, but maybe she doesn't handle dental work very well. I kiss her very softly and carefully.

"Hi," she says, smiling sleepily at me. She's in her pajamas, hair braided. Ready for bed.

It's not that late, but I follow her to the bedroom and tuck her in before taking my clothes off and getting ready for bed myself.

I climb in beside her and she curls against me. "You can watch TV if you want. I know it's still early," she says.

I kiss her hair and reach for the remote, flipping around until I find something to watch.

"How was your dinner?" she asks.

"Dreadful. I can tell you about it tomorrow if you like."

"Mmkay," she says. "Soup for lunch tomorrow, I think."

I chuckle slightly. "Sounds like a good idea."

I have the volume low, even though I know she doesn't mind, watching some show about space aliens and crop circles.

Guinevere seems slightly restless, like she can't settle down and go to sleep.

"Guinevere, are you all right?" I ask softly.

She doesn't answer for a moment. "Just a little restless. I'm tired, but I can't seem to relax."

"Can I get you anything?" I ask, softly stroking her cheek when she looks up at me. "Tylenol? Warm milk? Maybe a hot bath?"

"You're so sweet," she says, hugging me. "Maybe some Tylenol. I'd love a bath, but I don't really want to get out of bed."

"I'll be right back," I say. I slip out of her warm bed and fetch Tylenol and a glass of water.

"Thank you," she says, sitting up to take them. She sets the cup on the nightstand and snuggles back in, facing away from me now.

I spoon behind her and kiss her cheek. "Sleep now," I say.

"Okay."

I don't like it when she doesn't feel well. I feel kind of helpless.

I don't like feeling helpless.

This curse used to make me feel helpless. Hopeless.

As time went on, I thought I was in control of things, but I was still hopeless.

And then Guinevere came along. She made me feel helpless again, but in a different way. A way that changed my hopelessness into hopefulness.

She's asleep now. I look over at her, gently brushing a stray curl out of her face.

I know with every fiber of my being that I am completely hers. I want, more than anything, for her to be mine as well.

And for the rest of my life, not just for the next six days.

Six days.

If I get through this without going mad, I _deserve_ a vacation.

If Guinevere and I can lift this curse, I will forever treat her with the love and respect she has surely earned. I will treat her like the queen that she is.

Queen of my heart.


	56. Day 55

"You're feeling a lot better," I say, kissing her hello outside of Stone Bowl.

"Yeah," she says. This morning, she said her mouth still hurt a bit.

We queue up and get our soups. Guinevere has cream of broccoli; I go with chicken dumpling.

"So, why was your dinner dreadful?" she asks. "I mean, apart from what you already told me about the lovely Agravaine du Bois."

"He has a new wife. Number four, according to my father."

"Yes, the gold-digging twat, I recall," she smiles. "What was her name? Wait, let me guess. Bunny. Buffy. Muffy. Um… Trixie… Am I close? I'm running out of ideas here."

"Brandi. With an 'I'," I say, pretending to flip my hair. She laughs. "She's probably 22, and she's got him completely snowed. He thinks she's this adoring little lap dog, but really she's a pit bull that's going to sink her teeth into his wallet and not let go."

"Wow, you got all of that from one dinner?"

"One of the unusual side effects of my situation is the ability to read women pretty well," I say, almost regretfully. "She also made a pass at me away from the table."

"She did not!" she exclaims, more amused than anything.

I tell her what happened outside the restrooms. She just keeps laughing.

"Yeah, she said that the two of us could have a lot of fun with Agravaine's money. Also told me that I was very sexy," I say, waggling my eyebrows at her.

She laughs. "Well, no argument with that point, but was she seriously trying to proposition you to be her bit on the side and help her bilk her new husband out of his money? Does she even have the brain power to pull off that kind of thing?"

Now I laugh. "Probably not. I made it quite clear that I was spoken for and most definitely not interested in whatever she was selling. Then I went back to the table."

"You left her standing there?"

"Yep, left her in the corridor by the loos," I nod.

"Good man."

"When she came back to the table, we were actually talking about you. She wasn't pleased."

"You were talking about me?" she asks, a bit surprised.

"Father was wondering what took me so long. I told him I was checking in with you, and that led to him asking about how you were doing."

"Ah," she says, looking slightly uncomfortable.

"Only good things were said, I promise," I say. "He even said he ran into Catrina and she was wearing those pieces you made. He said they were really beautiful."

"Really? She was wearing them?" she asks, excited.

"That's what my father said, yes," I say. "He complimented her on them, actually. She told him that you made them. I don't know the exact details of the conversation. You'd have to ask him." I like seeing her excited like this. She's very cute.

"Oh, I'm so happy she was wearing it," she says, grinning broadly. "That set was a pain."

I smile at her, just watching her for a bit. I could watch her all day.

She looks up from her soup, catching me staring. "Arthur," she says, "you're staring."

"I know," I say, smiling.

She blushes slightly and looks down into her bowl.

I didn't think I could still make her blush.

"So, why is Agravaine so important?" she asks.

"He's got a lot of property. And land. Land on which he plans to put buildings."

"Ah, okay," she nods.

"He thinks of himself as Camelot's Donald Trump. He's really more of a sleazy slumlord."

"Lovely."

"Hopefully you'll never have the unique displeasure of meeting him," I say.

"If I do, I'll make sure to keep my distance," she says. "He sounds positively slimy."

"So, what are we doing tonight?" I ask.

"Can we stay in? We can rent a movie or something, if you like. Or take our chances with the telly."

"Of course we can stay in. As long as I can be with you," I say, reaching across for her hand.

She smiles at me, but she looks a little sad.

"Too clingy?" I ask, a thought suddenly occurring. But she was the one that said we'd be together every night…

"What? No! No, not at all," she says. "Why?"

"You just looked a little sad just now, that's all."

"Oh. Well, there's always a little sadness right now, isn't there?" she asks, squeezing my hand.

"I suppose you're right," I say.

"Um, also I was thinking I might work tomorrow morning. Give Sefa a break."

"Percival's in town," I say. "That's fine. So, your flat again tonight, then?"

"Is that all right?"

"It's fine. Like I said: Wherever you are."

"It'll just be for the morning," she says. "We'll have the whole afternoon and evening together."

"Guinevere, I'll be fine. I'll just hang about in your flat and wait for you there. If you trust me on my own, that is." I grin at her.

"Of course I do. Can we do laundry tomorrow night?"

"Sure. Oh, I was wondering if you wanted to go to the zoo tomorrow afternoon. I just remembered."

"The zoo?" she asks, glancing at her watch. "We should get going."

"Yeah." I look at my watch. "The Camelot Zoo has pandas on loan from the Edinburgh Zoo. Thought you might like to see them."

"Oh, I'd love to see them. I like pandas." We dispose of our trash and head outside.

"I kind of figured. You've got a few stuffed ones around your flat," I say, pulling her into my arms.

"Is the weather forecast favorable tomorrow?" she asks.

"I think so. I think it's supposed to be a very nice weekend, in fact." I lean down and kiss her. "So, now the important question."

"What's that?"

"What kind of movie should I pick up before I come over?"

"Hmm, that _is_ important. Something funny. Or with lots of explosions. Or both."

"Lots of explosions?" I ask. How can anyone not love this woman?

She just smiles and kisses me. "I'll cook something for dinner," she says, kissing me one last time. "Go to work."

"If I must." I reluctantly release her, see her to her car, and watch her drive away.

Something funny and/or with lots of explosions. Will have to give that some thought.

xXx

I find what I hope is the perfect movie. It's supposed to be funny, and there appear to be a lot of things blowing up. It's about retired CIA assassins that wind up "back in action." So it's old people shooting things up. What's not to like about that?

I hope she hasn't seen it. I texted her later, asking her if she wanted me to give her some choices or if I should just pick something. She replied with a resounding, "Just pick something."

So I picked something.

Her flat smells very good when I come in. "Mmm, what are you cooking for me?" I ask, dropping my bag to head into the kitchen for a kiss.

"Chicken," she says, winding her arms around my neck. "And spaetzle."

"Spaetzle?"

"You know, little German egg dumplings. Oh," she frowns, "like what was in your soup at lunch. Oh, dear…"

"It's fine, I like those dumplings. Oh, God, dumpling. That's what Agravaine called Brandi. _Dumpling,_ " I laugh.

"Never, _ever_ call me that," she says, laughing too.

"Don't worry, I won't," I promise. I give her a squeeze, hugging her waist while she hugs my neck. "What kind of chicken?"

"Nosy. It's boneless, skinless chicken breasts, wrapped in American style bacon."

"That sounds really good," I say, going over to peek in the oven. "Ooo."

"Get out of there," she laughs, pulling me away. "What did you find for us to watch?"

"Hang on." I return a second later with the movie.

"Perfect," she says, smiling.

"You haven't seen it, have you?"

"No, but I heard it's very good."

xXx

The movie is very good. So was dinner. I may have to switch my bacon loyalty. The spaetzle were really good, too. I had to stop myself from eating too many of them. We also had a simple green salad. She found some raspberry vinaigrette dressing for me. It's the only kind I like, really.

I put on my plaid pajama bottoms with my t-shirt after dinner and Guinevere puts her pajamas on so we could be "nice and cozy" (Guinevere's words) on the couch to watch the movie.

We start out sitting with her leaning against me, but end up lying side-by-side, Guinevere tucked in front of me. I love listening to her laugh. It makes me believe that everything is going to be fine.

We move to the bedroom after the movie is over. Maybe I'll pop out and return it in the morning while she's working. Give me something to do for ten minutes, anyway.

"Have I told you that I love your arms around me?" Guinevere asks, snuggling on her side, facing me.

"You may have hinted at it," I say, scooting closer and wrapping her in my embrace.

We lie in bed, facing each other, occasionally kissing, nuzzling, touching. She tucks her feet in between my calves. My fingers stroke her back. Her fingers trace small patterns on my chest.

We haven't really talked about what we're going to do about this curse in a few days now.

Somehow it doesn't really worry me. We have five days left, which isn't much, but I know she's thinking about it. If she had anything to tell me, she would. She doesn't need me haranguing her because I'm too dim to sort out my own problem.

"You're drifting," she says, reaching up to stroke my cheek.

"Little bit," I admit.

"It'll be okay," she says. "Stop fretting about it."

"It's hard."

"I know, darling. But you know, if you let go and _stop_ obsessing over a problem, sometimes the answer will come. If you allow yourself to relax, you can think more clearly."

"There may be something to that," I say. "I don't know if I know how to relax anymore, though."

She leans up and kisses me, and the flavor and feel of her lips is sufficient distraction to pull me out of my funk. I let her kiss me, let her take the lead. Her warm, sweet tongue caresses mine, sweeping through my mouth, soothing my soul.

"Relaxed now?" she whispers, smiling at me.

"Mmm," I sigh. I'm probably grinning stupidly right now, but I don't care. "Have to keep you around."

"That's what we're trying to accomplish," she says, kissing me again.

Indeed we are.

We kiss a bit longer, just enjoying ourselves. Eventually we wind down, sleepy, tired of thinking.

"Good night, Love," she whispers.

"Good night, Guinevere," I say, closing my eyes as she snuggles against me, getting ready to sleep. "My Guinevere," I add, just a whisper.

I hear her sigh. It's a happy sigh.

She must have heard me.


	57. Day 56

"I have to get up," a soft voice whispers. I feel a soft kiss on my collarbone, then my neck. "Arthur."

"Mmm… more kisses," I mumble, refusing to open my eyes.

She makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, and pushes herself upward to kiss my neck again, pointedly heading towards my ear.

"You go there, you definitely won't make it downstairs," I say, opening my eyes and capturing her lips with mine before she reaches her target.

"You wouldn't let go of me," she says, staring at me. "I need to get up and I couldn't move."

"Sorry," I say. But I don't let go.

"Arthur, what part of 'I need to get up' are you not comprehending?" she asks.

"One more kiss," I say.

She rolls her eyes and gives me one more kiss. I squeeze her tightly to me, then open my arms.

"If it matters, I don't _really_ want to get up either," she says.

"Oh, you say that now, once you're out of bed," I say, rolling over and pulling her pillow to me, holding that instead. It's squishier, but it smells like her.

"If I said it while I was _in_ bed, you definitely wouldn't have let me out," she says, leaving the room to go shower.

I'm still pretty tired. I don't know when I fell asleep last night, but I do know I woke up around three to find an infomercial for some sort of non-stick cookware playing on the telly. I switched it off, but then I was awake for a bit longer after that. Got up and peed (no banana this time) and came back to bed. Guinevere never moved.

When I wake up again, it's an hour later and she's gone downstairs. There's a note on the nightstand.

_You look very cute holding my pillow. I'm just downstairs if you need anything. Your Guinevere._

So, she definitely heard me last night. The note makes me smile. I set it back on the nightstand, knowing I'm going to carefully fold and tuck it into my wallet for safekeeping.

I get up, shower, eat a bowl of cereal (with a lot of sugar on. She doesn't have any good cereal), and decide to return the movie. I think about taking her laundry over to my condo now, but I don't know if there's anything else she wants washed apart from what's in the hamper. Better wait, then.

It's a nice day. Strangely humid for this early in June. The sky is bright blue with a few puffy clouds. I return the movie, pick up some cupcakes for us, and head back to her flat. She had left her key for me, as I expected.

Under normal circumstances, I likely would have my own key by now, and she, one to my place.

I return to her flat, flop down on her couch, and channel surf. There is bugger all on telly. Pregame coverage for today's joust, mostly mindless stuff right now. Percival gave his tickets to Sefa this week. She's got priority now, which is only fair. I think Guinevere said she took Freya with her. Or maybe Freya's brother. I can't really picture Freya enjoying a jousting match, but then, I wouldn't have pegged Sefa as the hardcore jousting fan that she is, either.

I just hope the press leaves her alone. People know what she looks like now. She doesn't deserve to be hassled.

I look at the clock. It's just after 10. Two more hours. And I'm bored.

I'm going to go downstairs.

I find the corridor leading to the back door of her shop. I hope the back door is unlocked.

I try it. It is. I walk in and through the back. She must be out front. I've been quiet, but I wonder if I should make some noise. I don't want to scare her by appearing out of nowhere, but I don't want to scare her by making noise back here, either.

I walk to the doorway leading to the front. She's alone, sitting on a stool and looking at a magazine. Perhaps a catalog. I decide to knock on the doorframe. She looks up suddenly, then smiles.

"I was wondering when you'd get bored enough to come down," she says.

"Am I that predictable?" I ask, walking over.

"Only to me, my dear," she says, lifting her face to kiss me.

"Been busy?" I ask.

"Not really. I might close up early," she says.

"What are you looking at?" I lean down over her shoulder, resting my chin there. She has her hair pinned up somehow, and I turn my head and kiss her neck, since I have unfettered access.

"Gemstone catalog. Looking for ideas."

"Getting any?"

She points to a notebook. There's a list of stones she's considering and a few doodles.

"I like this," I say pointing to one. "Well, I like them all, but this one is really cool."

"They're just doodles," she says.

"They have potential," I say. "They just need a little… growth. A little work."

"Sounds like you," she says, smiling.

I chuckle and kiss her neck.

xXx

One customer came in while I was downstairs keeping Guinevere company. She waited another half an hour, then decided to close at 11:30. We had an early lunch of sandwiches and macaroni and cheese (my request, another guilty pleasure of mine). And cupcakes.

Then, the zoo. It was pretty crowded, being Saturday, but not too bad. I haven't been to the zoo in years. I like zoos. Walking around, seeing animals one wouldn't normally get to see.

Guinevere loves the penguins and the sea otters. I like the reptile house and the aquarium. We both laugh at the monkeys, remembering that first phone conversation where I claimed I wasn't yet fully evolved and she asked me if I flung my poo at my enemies.

"Well, looks like no one's flinging poo today," I say, squeezing her hand.

"Probably for the best, don't you think?" she asks. "And, for the record, your thumbs oppose quite nicely," she adds, lifting our joined hands to kiss my thumb.

"Come on, let's go find those pandas," I say, smiling down at her upturned face. We start walking, and I notice the sky. "It's clouding up," I mutter, wondering if we're in for a surprise rain shower.

"They did say on the news this morning that it was a possibility," she says. "What with the humidity and all."

"Oh," I answer. I hadn't watched any of the news. "They're going to get wet at the match," I chuckle.

"I'm sure Sefa is prepared," she says, pointing. We can just make out some large black and white animals.

They are huge. I didn't realize that pandas were so big. Guinevere takes some photos of them. I just watch them. There are two, a male and a female. They appear to be mainly lazing around and munching bamboo.

"Rough life," I comment, smiling. "Sitting around, eating, hanging around with my mate. I could live like that."

"They're magnificent," Guinevere says, smiling. She's really enjoying this. That makes me happy. We move over to a space that has just opened up near a placard telling about them.

"The male is called Yang Guang, which means 'sunshine,' and the female is called Tian Tian, which means 'sweetie,'" she reads.

"Which is which?" I ask.

She looks. "No idea," she laughs. "Wait, that one is scratching its bum. That must be the male," she adds. I laugh. So does an older couple standing nearby, who obviously heard her.

She grins up at me. "Thank you for taking me to see them, Arthur. They're so wonderful."

"You are most welcome, Guinevere," I say, kissing her. "There's a safari walk that's fairly new. Fancy a go? You can feed giraffes."

"Definitely," she says.

We find the safari path, which is mostly an elevated deck that winds around a large section of the zoo that has been designed to look like an African savannah. Right away we see zebras grazing. There are a few giraffes as well, and an ostrich. We walk, we stop, we walk. There's a mock African trading post along the path. Further along is a mock village, with little huts that have windows overlooking the mock savannah.

We get to the section where we can feed giraffes. I pay for six hunks of lettuce and give them all to Guinevere.

It starts sprinkling rain just as Gwen goes to the rail to offer a piece of lettuce to the nearest giraffe.

There are several around; obviously they know where the food is. She holds the lettuce out and the giraffe snakes his (or her) long tongue out, a strange purplish-black color, winding it around the lettuce and some of Guinevere's hand and pulling it into its mouth.

She squeals with surprised laughter. It's wonderful to watch. I take my mobile out and snap a few shots of her feeding them. Their tongues are just surreal. They're like a hand, almost. Prehensile.

"Arthur, you do some," she says. "You must, it's amazing," she says, handing me her last two pieces of lettuce.

"Okay." I take the lettuce and walk to the rail.

"Wait," she says, pulling her mobile out now.

"Here you—whoa!" I exclaim as the giraffe takes the lettuce from me. "You're like a bloody long-necked frog with that tongue of yours!" I hold out the other piece and he takes it again. His tongue is, well, a tongue, leaving a big wet smear on my hand. I stroke his nose once, amazed that he lets me.

It's raining harder now. We move under the shelter of the hut where the lettuce vendor is working and show each other our pictures.

"We'd better keep moving," I say. We each take a measure of hand sanitizer from the pump hanging on the shelter and move on, quicker now. The rain is falling harder.

We reach the next shelter, a mock explorer's hut, and decide to wait out the rain. The shelter is open on two sides, but it's solid and dry. And there's a bench.

"This is quite the storm," Guinevere says, running her hands down her arms, wiping the droplets from her skin.

I watch, entranced by her flawless brown skin, shining slightly with residual moisture. She pats her hair, checking to make sure the rain hasn't made it come undone too much. It must be satisfactory, because she does nothing else with it.

I run my hand through my hair. It's pretty wet.

The wind picks up and we get sprayed a bit. It's pouring now, the rain coming down in sheets. It's even difficult to see through it, it's so heavy.

"Wow," I say. Guinevere reaches up and wipes some wet spots from my cheek and nose.

"I think we're stuck here until it passes," she says.

"I think so," I agree, sliding my thumb gently over her collarbone, wiping some water away. "Trapped, as it were." I lean forward and decide to remove some more rain droplets from her neck with my lips and tongue.

"Arthur…" She makes a weak attempt at a protest, but by the second sweep of my tongue along her collarbone, she's clutching my shoulders.

"We're quite alone," I mutter against her skin, "and we need to pass the time somehow."

"Mmm," she moans, taking my face in her hands and bringing it to her lips. We kiss, sweetly and deeply, and I pull her closer, tugging at her waist until she is on my lap.

She bites my lower lip lightly, tugging it into her mouth where she sucks on it a little before releasing it. I groan and grow hungrier for her, if that's even possible, holding her tightly on my lap as I plunder her mouth with my tongue.

One hand slides up to support the back of her head. I really want to tug her hair free, to feel her damp curls falling over my hands. I start carefully investigating with my fingers.

"Don't you dare," she gasps, pulling her lips from mine. My lips simply relocate, kissing her neck. "I know what you want to do, Arthur."

"Do you?" I ask, lifting my head momentarily and raising an eyebrow at her, being as suggestive as possible.

She laughs. "I promise you can do it later." She kisses my lips softly.

"Do which thing?" I ask, smirking.

"Both," she whispers. Then she very pointedly kisses my ear, nibbling it _just_ enough to make me feel a little insane.

"We'd better stop… before we do something that will get us arrested… or barred from the zoo, at the very least," I manage, lifting my hand to gently touch her cheek.

"You should have thought of that before _you_ started," she says, grinning at me. She starts to slide off of my lap, but I hold her in place.

"Stay here," I say. "I said we should stop snogging, I didn't say you had to move."

"You don't mind me sitting on you?"

"You hardly weigh anything at all, Guinevere," I say.

"That's sweet of you to say, even if it is grossly inaccurate," she laughs.

The rain keeps us stranded for almost an hour. We play some games on my mobile (I have better games than she does), take silly photos of ourselves and send them to Leon, snog a little more, and chat about unimportant things. We decide to get curry takeaway for dinner, since we're going to my condo tonight.

Finally, the rain lets up enough to allow us to move along. Everything is soaking wet and most of the animals have sought shelter. A ways along the path, we see a tree that fell over in the storm.

"How can you tell it fell over in _this_ storm?" Guinevere asks.

"Well, look. The wood is still bright where it broke. And the leaves aren't even wilted yet."

"Oh, dear, you're right. I didn't realize the winds were _that_ strong."

"Well, we were a bit distracted for some of it," I say, grinning at her. "And it's not a very big tree."

"True," she giggles. "Come on. I'm ready to go home. We've seen everything, right?"

"Just have to finish this path. I think we were more than halfway, so let's keep moving."

We pass through an aviary full of brightly colored birds and another clearing with a few zebra that have decided to emerge again. Still farther along is a rhinoceros, glowering at us from a distance. I think he's ugly. Guinevere declares him "majestic."

Of course she's right.

xXx

We're getting to be quite domestic, I realize. Dinner, laundry, debating about what to watch on telly.

Last week when she did her laundry, she left her detergent and other supplies here. I didn't see the harm. Today, on Day 56, I wonder if I should gently suggest she take them home with her.

Because we still haven't gotten our answer. At least, not as far as I know.

What if we've somehow lifted it already? How would we know?

Surely Morgana would call me. Wouldn't she?

Or Merlin. Merlin would call. Definitely Merlin would let me know if Morgana wouldn't.

"You're frowning about something over there," she says, coming over and kissing the wrinkle between my eyebrows caused by my frown.

"It's Day 56," I say.

"I know," she answers softly, sitting on my lap.

"What will we do if… if we don't…"

"Shh…" she shushes gently, kissing my forehead again. "We will. Have faith, Arthur."

"It's hard," I admit, leaning my head against her shoulder. "It's so hard." It's hard because I want it _so badly._ I've always wanted the curse gone, but I've never had such a good reason before. I found someone wonderful, someone I love more than anything, and the pressure of getting rid of this thing that could potentially tear us apart just weighs on me.

When I let it. She keeps telling me to stay positive and not worry so much. She says that the answer will come if I relax and stop obsessing over it.

Unfortunately, this thing has been a part of my life for over two years now. They say it takes three weeks to form a habit. I've had two bloody years.

"I know it is, Love," she says, her fingers in my hair now, gently soothing.

"Mmm." It feels nice.

"We'll get this sorted," she whispers, lifting my face to kiss me.

I wish I had her confidence.

The dryer buzzes, and we both sigh. "Excellent timing," I say sarcastically.

"We have all night, Arthur," Guinevere reminds me, climbing off of my lap. I follow her to the dryer.

I'm just putting the last of my things away in my room when she comes in. I can see through the bedroom door that the living room is dark and the telly is off.

Oh, that's right. We have unfinished business.

Guinevere pulls the covers down and sits cross-legged in the center of my bed, waiting for me to finish putting my underwear away.

"You organize your pants?" she asks, craning her neck to see what I'm doing.

"Um, I put the clean ones on the bottom so I don't wear the same ones all the time," I say. It makes sense, I think.

"Mine are sorted by color," she admits. "So are my socks."

I chuckle and walk over to the bed.

"I promised you that you could undo my hair," she says.

"You did," I say, sitting behind her. Before I start taking things out of her hair, I lean forward and press a kiss to the back of her slender neck. She drops her head forward slightly, so I do it again, softer, wetter. And again.

I'd better stop before I get too distracted and forget my task. My treat.

There is a large clip and a few smaller pins. I start with the smaller pins, gently pulling them out and setting them on the nightstand.

I watch the tiny curls that were secured by the pins fall, just brushing her neck like a whisper of a kiss. I reach a finger up and wind one of the small curls around it. I release it, then tug it gently, watching it _sproing_ back.

Her shoulders shake slightly, and I know she's giggling at me. I don't care.

I reach for the larger clip now, opening and pulling it free. Her hair drops, but instead of the flowing cascade I am expecting, it gently unfurls, staying somewhat twisted together.

Well, then. That just means I get to keep playing. I set the clip on the nightstand and carefully slide my fingers into her hair, unwinding it, separating the locks with my fingers.

"They're still a little damp," I mumble, combing my fingers through her curls, enjoying the soft-coarse texture of them against my skin.

"It's been twisted together all day," she answers softly. "And it was rained on this afternoon."

"I love your hair," I say quietly. I realize I'm stating the obvious.

"I know," she giggles.

I lean forward and kiss the back of her head once, then bury my nose in her hair, tucking my face into her neck.

"Are you done playing?" she asks, turning slightly.

"I think so," I say.

She turns around fully and kisses me, pressing me back against the pillows, sliding her hand up under my shirt.

I've never bought into the whole concept of having a soulmate before. But as Guinevere kisses me, I begin to understand.

As she undresses me, kissing my skin as she exposes it, I begin to believe.

As she sinks down over me, letting me worship her, loving me, I'm nearly convinced.

After, lying sated in her arms with my head on her chest, I hear her heartbeat, her soft breathing.

And I know. She is my soulmate. The missing part of me. I was walking around for 27 years an incomplete person.

Five years ago if someone had told me I would wind up head over heels in love, I would have laughed. Derisively.

Five months ago I never would have dared to dream that I would meet someone like her.

Five days ago I was helping her make rum cake and listening to her tell me to trust my heart, because it is a good heart.

Five minutes ago I was blissfully joined with her, not thinking of anything except her and how much I love her, mind, body, and soul.

And five days from now, it might all be taken from me.

I can't let that happen.

Trust myself. Trust my heart.

Relax and the answer will come.

I think I can do this.

I hope I can.


	58. Day 57

Any morning that involves me waking up with Guinevere in my arms is a good morning. She's always so warm and soft, better than any teddy bear.

I start making a mental list of things I'm going to miss about her, but I stop immediately. There are too many things. And I need to stay positive.

She sighs and squirms a little, stirring awake. I kiss her forehead.

"Mmm, what time is it?" she asks, her eyes still closed.

"Almost eight," I say, kissing her again.

"Have you been awake long?"

"Just a few minutes."

She kisses my shoulder. "Can we stay here all day?"

I chuckle. "I think you know what my answer is."

Her eyes slowly open, and I look down into those honey brown pools. "I know," she smiles. "Actually, there is something I want to do today." She stretches, turning slightly, my arms still around her.

"What's that?" I ask. She curls against me again, and I caress her bare back, sliding my hand down to her bum, where I leave it.

"I want to play golf," she declares. "Real golf, not mini."

"You do?" I ask. I've never golfed. Many people are surprised by this fact, as it is often a hobby of the wealthy. I never felt the urge to try it. Father never really played. He was more for tennis. I preferred football.

"Yes, I do," she declares. She leans up on her elbow and looks down at me. "If we only have a few days left, you get to indulge my whims." Then she kisses me.

I suppose she has a point. "Um, I don't have any clubs," I say.

"You can use my brother's," she answers. "You're both right-handed, so it should be fine. They're in storage in the basement of my building. I don't know why I kept them, but I did."

"Golf it is, then. If you're willing to put up with my ineptitude, I'm game," I say, smiling.

"Oh, come now. You're athletic; you'll be fine. You did really well at mini golf, once I got you sorted," she points out, still leaning on her elbow. It's starting to get distracting, because she's got nothing on.

"Don't I need special shoes?"

"Not really. Yes, most people have golf shoes, but if you don't have them, it's not the end of the world. Just wear your trainers, not your flip flops, and you'll be fine."

"You have golf shoes," I say.

"Well, of course I do," she says. "Now come on. Let's get up."

We have a simple breakfast and then take a shower. I join her again, claiming that we're conserving water this way. She doesn't buy it, but she doesn't shove me out the door, either.

She lets me wash her, sliding my soapy hands over her skin, occasionally kissing her, our mouths now minty fresh.

I reach for her shampoo, holding it aloft. "Can I? Please?" I sound like a child asking for permission, but I don't care.

"Very well," she sighs. "But don't get it all tangled. Don't pile all my hair up on top of my head."

"Okay," I say, squirting some shampoo into my palm.

"More," she instructs. "I have at least twice the hair you do, remember."

Right. I add some more, and she nods. She tips her head into the shower spray, thoroughly wetting her hair, then stands with her back to me. I rub the shampoo in my hands and start working it into her hair, starting at the top, massaging her scalp with my fingertips as I make my way around. She makes a contented sort of hum, leaning her head back slightly.

"That feels really good, actually," she says.

"Good," I mutter. I'm busy trying to not screw this up, because I'd like to be able to do this again someday.

If all goes well in other areas, of course.

Her hair is heavy and wet in my hands, and I move down, gently rubbing shampoo into the longer part hanging down her back, feeling the wet strands as they slide between my fingers.

I'm really enjoying this. Perhaps in another life I was a hairdresser, who knows?

I gently guide her head back under the spray, running my fingers through her hair to get all the shampoo out.

I follow with the conditioner, repeating what I did with the shampoo.

"Why my hair?" she asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Of all the things on which you could be fixated, why my hair?"

"Oh." I think a minute, my fingers combing through her wet curls. This stuff is really slippery. "Forbidden fruit, I think."

"Forbidden fruit?"

I tilt her head under the shower spray again. "Most of the women I've dated didn't let me touch their hair," I explain. "Sure, I could tuck a lock behind their ear, maybe brush my hand over it if it was down. But that's about it. A couple of them wouldn't even let me do that much."

"It's just hair," she says, making a face. "I guess I'm just not that vain."

I snort. "And I don't think I've dated anyone with curls like this, to be honest," I say. I'm done now, and so I gently turn her around and kiss her. "Thank you. I liked that."

"I can tell," she says, smiling at me. "You did a good job." She lifts up and kisses me again, longer. "Your turn," she whispers.

She doesn't reach for the soap, though. She slides her hands down my body, grasping my shaft in her hand. I've pretty much had at least a semi going on this entire time, but he springs to attention as soon as her hand makes contact.

My head drops back with a groan. Then I feel her mouth surround me and I brace my hand on the shower wall.

I can't think any more.

Bloody hell.

It doesn't take long before I'm gasping her name.

"Gwen… I'm…"

She slides me out of her mouth and her hand takes its place, stroking just a few times before my knees buckle and I groan loudly.

Guinevere stands, kissing my stomach and chest a few times as she rises. "Now for the soap," she says, softly, giving me an impish grin.

I take her face in my hands and kiss her. _Then_ I let her wash me. Including my hair.

xXx

We laze around until lunch, deciding to golf in the early afternoon. Then she takes me to a small golf course at the edge of town, adjacent to the Forest of Essetir. It's called Essetir Golf Course, funnily enough.

"This is where Dad used to take us when we were kids," she explains, doing a poor job of hiding her smirk.

"Very kind of you," I say. "I just hope they're not busy." It is Sunday, after all, the stereotypical day for golf.

"They're usually not," she says. "And the people that are here aren't the type of people that are going to judge you if you don't do well."

I pull into the lot and see a notice below the sign that advertises, "Children Welcome."

All right, then. It's a beginner's course. I should be grateful, but my male pride says otherwise. I wisely keep my mouth closed about it.

We pay and head out. Guinevere looks terribly cute in her little shorts and a sleeveless polo shirt, her hair in two braids (requested by me).

"Okay, so it's just like mini golf, just… bigger," she says.

I look at her. "Right."

She's stretching, holding her club sideways in her hands, turning this way and that, pulling one arm and then the other across her body.

It's a good show.

"Just… watch me," she says.

"I am," I answer, and she laughs.

She walks over, spears her tee into the ground, holding the ball with it, and positions herself next to it.

I watch as she makes a few practice swings. Seems simple enough. It actually is just as she said: like mini golf, only bigger.

She steps forward, lines up her shot, and swings. The ball soars, landing just shy of the green and a little to the right.

"Wow," I say, impressed.

She frowns at it. "Thank you, but usually I can hit the green on this hole."

"You'll still do better than I," I say. "Not that that's much of a consolation."

"Okay, come up here," she calls to me. I walk up, a ball and tee in one hand and my club – the one she told me to use; I have no idea – in the other.

I poke the tee into the ground.

"Not all the way in."

I look up. "That's what she said," I say, grinning, but then I pull the tee up out of the ground some.

"Take it all the way out and put it in… somewhere… else…" she says, laughing before she finishes, realizing how it sounds. "That's what she said," she laughs. Then, "Ew."

I'm laughing really hard now, crouched on the ground, tee dangling from my fingers.

"Okay, I can do this," I say, still laughing. I stab the tee in, only halfway, and set the ball on top.

She sets her club down so she can help me. She's got a white glove on her left hand. Mine is black. It was a little stiff from sitting for a year, but it fit, so she suggested I wear it.

"All right, do you remember how to put your hands?"

I show her. She nods. "Good. Now…" she walks around behind me. "Feet a little farther apart." I move them. She walks in front of me. "Straighten your left arm." I do. "It should be a straight line from your shoulder to the head of your club."

Okay. I adjust. "Take a practice swing," she says.

I take a couple steps back and swing.

"Not bad," she says. "Don't push the club, let it swing. That's why it's called a _swing._ "

I laugh once and try again. She declares it "better," and tells me to step up to the ball.

Here goes nothing. I swing. I miss the ball.

That was embarrassing. I scowl.

"You picked up. Keep your knees bent," she says, watching studiously, her hand on her chin.

I try again. I hit the ball, but instead of soaring into the air like hers, it skims the tips of the grass, stopping about halfway to the green.

"Better," she says, smiling. "You still picked up some, but you made contact."

"Is that why it didn't go up?" I ask.

"Probably. Come on, there are people coming behind us now."

She tells me which club to use next. She also explains how to know which one to use. I'll probably forget, but I think I've got it. This one goes a little better. At least it goes in the air this time, landing near hers.

I grin proudly at her and she gives me a quick kiss, glancing sheepishly at the people now waiting to tee off.

Once I get on the green, I know what to do. It's actually rather nice not having to worry about castles or dragons or ramps.

As we go along, I start to show some signs of improvement. Thankfully, the people behind us are an elderly couple who are just as slow as we are, so I don't worry about looking like an idiot.

At the fourth hole, we buy two bottles of water from a young lady driving a cart with a beverage cooler on the back. It's a warm day; yesterday's storm brought heat with it.

We chat a bit between her instructions, and decide that we'll sleep at her flat tonight, since we need to bring her laundry and Elyan's clubs back there anyway.

I tell her I want to take her out to dinner tonight, and we decide on The Locker, a seafood place that she likes but doesn't often get to go to.

The ninth hole is very short. I actually make it on the green from the tee, and I celebrate a little too loudly. Guinevere shushes me, laughing, but then she kisses me and tells me I did well.

She kept score; I didn't. I have no idea how badly she beat me, but that's probably a good thing.

"Did you have fun?" she asks, taking her golf shoes and socks off and slipping her feet back into her mustache flip-flops.

"I did, actually," I say, leaning against the car. "Might have something to do with the company, though," I add, pulling her over to me.

"You did very well for your first time," she tells me, leaning her chin on my chest.

"Thank you. You were a very good teacher," I say, leaning down to kiss her.

"Mmm, let's go home," she says. I don't know if she's referring to my condo or her flat, but I realize it doesn't really matter.

We stop at my condo first to collect her things. I pack both something to wear to dinner tonight and work tomorrow, and then we return to her flat.

xXx

Dinner was very good. Guinevere had snow crab legs and I had stuffed flounder. By the time we leave, we're both stuffed as well. No dessert this time.

I realize my shoulders are stiff when I take my shirt off after dinner. I was going to put a t-shirt on for a bit before bed, but I don't think I will now. I put my plaid pajama bottoms on and head to the loo.

That's when I see that I'm also sunburned. Oh well.

"Too warm for a shirt?" she asks me when I emerge.

"My shoulders are sore from golfing, I think," I say. "And it is a bit warm, yes." I sit beside her on the couch.

"You've also caught some sun," she remarks, lifting her hand to my cheek.

"So have you," I say. "Though not as much."

"You're a bit fairer than I am, Love," she laughs.

"I suppose that's true." There is just the slightest hint of pink on her cheeks. It makes her look glowing and healthy. I probably look like one of the lobsters at the restaurant tonight. I stretch my neck to one side, then the other.

"That bad, huh?" she asks.

"I'm okay," I say. I've had worse.

She gets up, goes back to the bathroom, and returns with some Tylenol and the same bottle of lotion I used when she sprained her ankle.

She gives me the Tylenol and brings me a glass of water. Then she sits behind me on the couch, perched on the arm. She pulls me gently over and begins massaging my shoulders.

Oh, wow. She's surprisingly strong. It feels so good.

"So you've told me about Elena, and I've met Vivian," she starts.

Where is she going with this? More questions?

"Yes…" I say, hesitantly.

"But you never mention any of the others. Well, except Morgause, of course. I trust you remember their names."

"Of course I do," I say. "Oh, right there," I groan when she hits a particularly tender spot. She stays on that spot, working the knot with her thumbs. "What do you want to know?"

"Who was before Vivian?"

"Her name was Sara. She… worked as a veterinarian's assistant. Oh…" I groan again.

"Good 'oh' or bad?"

"Good…" I say, and she presses harder.

"So, she liked animals?"

"Yes. She was smart. Funny. Always had some sort of animal hair on her clothes, though."

"Occupational hazard," Gwen says.

"She had two dogs and two cats," I say.

"How did you end it with her?" she asks. "Fake an allergy?"

"Ha," I laugh. "No. I told her that I liked her a lot, but I realized that my feelings were mainly feelings of… ow… friendship. Funny thing is, that was actually true."

" _Are_ you still friends?"

"Not really. People always say, 'We can still be friends,' but it rarely works. Occasionally she'll email me a joke or some funny animal photos or something."

"I'd like to have a dog someday," she says absently.

"Yes, you do like them, I've noticed. And they seem to like you," I say. I'll get her a dog, if I can. I'd even have the dog cared for at the vet where Sara works, I think.

"Who was before Sara?"

"Lisa. She was in public relations. Very bubbly and sweet."

"And?"

So this is another round of questions. "I told her that I couldn't give her what she wanted. That I wasn't ready for a big commitment. She called me a coward. Yelled at me something terrible." I pause, dropping my head to my chest. "I've been yelled at rather a lot."

"I imagine so," she says. I can't see her face and it bothers me, because I can't tell how she's feeling about all this.

"And before her?"

"Jayasri. She's from India. Her parents still live there," I say. "She was… right there, right there… shorter than you, even."

"And what was she like?" she asks. Her hands are seriously magic.

"Why do you want to know all this?" I ask.

"Curiosity, mainly," she says. "I'm a very nosy person. I won't ask about any more after her, I promise. Not tonight, anyway."

I sigh. No point in not answering her. She wants to know. "Jayasri was a research scientist. I met her at a pub," I laugh. "Strange. A person doesn't expect to go to a pub and pick up a girl with a doctorate in Molecular Biology."

"What did she work on?"

"Water studies. Big problem in India, water purification."

"Yes. That's good of her, trying to do something to help like that," she says. Her hands are wandering more than they are massaging now. "And how did you end things with her?" she asks.

"Ah. She ended it with me, but I kind of made it happen. Well, I orchestrated the timing."

Her hands stop moving.

"Not my proudest moment, obviously."

"What did you do?" she asks.

"I met her parents. On Skype. I put it off until Day 59. She had already told me that they were super traditional, so I took a chance that they'd make her leave me when they saw me, the blonde British bloke. They did. She broke up with me the next day, on Day 60."

"If that wasn't so awful it would actually be brilliant," she says, puzzling. "You're kind of scary."

"I've just had lots of practice," I sigh. "Like I said, I'm not proud of it."

"Indeed not," she says. She wraps her arms around my shoulders from behind, leaning her head on mine. "I feel bad for them, but I also feel bad for you. I mean, yes, they were your… victims, for lack of a better term, but it can't have been easy on you, either. I know how _I_ feel when I know I'm going to have to give someone bad news. You must have felt that way almost all the time." She kisses the top of my head.

"Yes. It's amazing I could even eat, with the amount of times my stomach was knotted. You'd think I would have gotten used to it, but, you know, I never did."

"That's good," she says. I turn and look at her. "It's good that it still affected you. It shows that you _do_ care, that you _do_ have a good heart, like I said." Her hand drops down and covers my heart. "It also proves that you're not a sociopath," she adds.

I laugh a little at that. "Well, _that's_ good to know." I turn around and pull her down onto my lap, wrapping my arms around her. She's all soft and cozy in her pajamas already, too. I bury my face in her neck and sigh. "Sometimes I think I should, I don't know, write them all and tell them the truth. Clear my conscience, you know? Probably would have to write an actual letter. They wouldn't take my call and most of them would likely just delete an email from me."

"That's… actually a good idea. Even if they just throw it away and not look at it, even if they read it and don't believe you, you've at least made the effort. For them _and_ for yourself _._ "

"You think it's a good idea?" I ask, lifting my head.

"Yes, I do. I'll even help you, if you like."

"I might wait until after… you know."

"I'll still help you, Arthur," she says, kissing me. "I'm not that easy to get rid of."

I'm counting on that.


	59. Day 58

It's Monday. I have three days left. Three days to figure out how to get out of this mess. I'm not getting anything done at work today at all. I'm doodling, mainly. Geometric patterns are my doodles of choice most of the time. My sketchpad is covered with them.

Around 10:30 I pick up my mobile and text Merlin.

_A: Any more words of wisdom for me?_

"Hey, can you do lunch today?" Leon's voice in my doorway jars me out of my thoughts. "Whoa, you're really sunburned."

"Thanks for noticing. I'm having lunch with Guinevere today," I say. We usually have lunch on Fridays, but I may not get that option this week.

"Don't you normally go out with her on Friday?" he asks.

"Yes. But we're going out today as well," I say, a little sharper than I intend. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snap."

He walks in, closing the door behind him. "Everything all right? You seem stressed." He sits.

"Yes. No. No," I say.

"Trouble with Gwen?"

"No, she's amazing. It's just… something else. I can't…"

"Whoa, I don't think I want to know about this," he says, holding his hands up.

"What? No! It's not like that. Bloody hell, Leon, if I was having problems with _that,_ I sure as hell wouldn't be telling you!" I exclaim. It would almost be funny if it weren't a very real possibility in four days.

"So what is it, then?" he asks.

"I can't tell you," I sigh. "I just… can't. Not right now."

"Look, Arthur: You're my best mate. Apart from Gwaine, I mean. But we've known one another since we were boys. You can tell me anything and I won't think any less of you, I promise."

"Thanks," I say. "I… I'd like to tell you, but… just not right now. Definitely not here."

"So, when?" he asks. He's persistent.

"In a few days. Maybe this weekend. Maybe next week." Shit. Percival. "Sometime when Percival is around. If I'm telling you, I need to tell him, too." Especially because of Sefa's connection to Guinevere.

"Wow, must be something pretty big," he says, sounding worried. "Does Gwen know?"

"Yes, she does."

He says nothing for a long moment. "You're not dying, are you?"

Feels like it. "No, I'm not dying or terminally ill or a woman trapped in a man's body or moving to Texas or anything like that."

"Are you—"

"Don't guess, Leon. Just… be patient with me for a few days. I just need to get through Wednesday."

"What happens Wednesday?"

"I can't tell you."

He narrows his eyes at me. "I hope you know what you're doing," he says.

"That's what I'm trying to figure out." My mobile buzzes on my desk. "One second."

_M: Listen to Gwen._

_A: Gee, thanks._

_M: I would like to be able to give you more help._

_A: I know._

"What was that?" he asks.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I sigh. "Part of the… _thing_ that's eating at me. Look, I promise I'll explain everything sometime soon. And there's a good chance I'll be taking a few sick days this week. At least two."

"Wednesday?" he guesses.

"And probably Thursday." Whether I've got the curse sorted or not, I'm not going to work on Thursday. Either I'll be wallowing in self-pity or spending my day with Guinevere.

Hoping for the latter.

"Well, you've got me good and confused, but I won't press. I will be patient and wait for when you're ready."

"Thank you," I say. I suddenly realize that I should have told them both long ago. They might have been able to help me. Or they would have at least supported me. Given me someone to talk to.

"Lunch tomorrow?" he asks, standing.

"I don't think I'll be very good company," I say.

"We'll see," he says. "Take care of yourself, mate. I hate seeing you like this."

"I hate being like this. And please don't tell Father."

"Tell him what?" he asks, winking at me before turning to go.

xXx

I know that I will not be able to deal with Gwaine's particular brand of charm today, and since we just had soup on Friday, we decide to go to Imperial Wok for lunch.

The staff there is starting to remember us now. We are greeted warmly and led to a booth in the corner. The hostess, who I think is one of the owners, seems to know that we'd like to be disturbed as little as possible.

"You look so tired," Guinevere says, reaching across the table for my hand.

"Come over here," I say, scooting further into the booth.

Normally I roll my eyes at couples that sit on the same side of a booth like this, but I want her closer. I need her closer.

She changes her seat without question. She doesn't need to ask why; she knows.

The waitress, whose name we now know to be Mei, brings us water and hot tea and takes our order, since we already know what we want.

"How was your morning?" she asks.

"Long. Leon knows something is wrong," I say.

"What did you tell him?" she asks.

I tell her about our conversation. She agrees that I should tell him and Percival together. "We can have everyone over, maybe. Have some dinner. Then you can tell them," she suggests, sipping her tea.

"Maybe," I say. That's about the level of commitment I can give right now.

She nods, understanding my reluctance to give a definitive answer.

I shake my head, trying to physically clear it. I need to stop moping. She doesn't deserve to have me behaving like a petulant child. We're supposed to be enjoying ourselves because we don't know whether our time is limited or not.

"How was your morning?" I ask, striving for normal. I think I fall short, but she answers anyway, glad to have something else to talk about, possibly.

"Not too bad. Sefa knows something is going on, too, and I basically told her the same thing you told Leon. She said she could sense it in me. But that custom job – the one for that bloke that came in while I was out with my appendix – is going really well. I'll have it finished by tomorrow, I think."

"What is it?"

"A bracelet for his daughter. It's an interesting story. Kind of sad, though. His wife died several years ago, and his daughter is going off to university this fall, to Paris. He wanted to give her a special graduation present, something meaningful. So he brought me his wife's wedding ring set and had me make it into a bracelet for his daughter."

"How do you do something like that?" I ask.

"Well, I took the diamonds out – there were two – and I created the design around them. Then I just melted the gold from the ring with some more gold, and cast the bracelet. You know, the spinny thing you saw me do that day." She spins her finger in the air to illustrate.

"And then you set the diamonds into it after it comes out of the stuff and you clean it all up?" I ask. I like hearing about her work. It's really fascinating.

"Yes," she nods, smiling at me.

Our food arrives. Mei drops it off and disappears as quickly as she had appeared.

I didn't think I'd have an appetite, but it's really good. I got mu shu beef and Guinevere got sesame chicken. We share bites of each other's meals.

She tells me some more about the bracelet and asks me about my design for the school. She seems pleased that I ultimately went with the design she liked better.

We don't talk that much, actually, we just enjoy being together.

Our fortune cookies don't have much wisdom to impart. A tiny part of me was kind of hoping that there would be something helpful inside.

Completely stupid, I know. They're just mass-produced cookies with slips of paper inside bearing sayings that are probably computer-generated now.

But these are the last acts of a desperate man.

Outside, I hold her in the parking lot.

"My place tonight?" I ask, kissing the top of her head.

"Yes. Will you pick me up?"

"Of course I will."

"I'll bring that lotion with me. The one I put on your sunburn this morning," she says, looking up and touching my cheekbone gently.

"Okay, thanks. It doesn't hurt too much," I say.

"Good," she answers. "We need to get back to work."

"If we must," I say. "But first…" I lean down and kiss her. I take my time, savoring, committing her sweet flavor to memory.

Just in case.

"I'll pick you up after work," I say.

"See you later," she replies.

xXx

"No more moping," Guinevere had declared after dinner. She brought some things to make us dinner, knowing that I don't have much.

It occurs to me that we probably should have gone to the market yesterday. Oh well. I think my milk is still good.

She whipped up a quick bubble and squeak, which was really good. I could use comfort food right now, and that definitely fits the bill.

Now we are in my room, lying in my bed, watching TV.

I'm trying not to mope. I try to find things to talk about, but it's not easy.

Then something occurs to me.

"Guinevere," I say, looking down at her.

"Yes?"

"So, I know about Lance, but has there been anyone else? I mean, you know most of the sordid details of my past, but I just realized that I don't know about yours."

"You really want to know?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at me.

"Yes, I really want to know," I confirm.

"Okay. Don't let your jealousy run away with you, though," she smirks.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Well, it's not very sordid. I was what they call a 'late bloomer.' Never dated until I got to University, in fact."

"Really?"

"I spent most of my time in the art rooms. Plus I was… kind of a nerd."

"I find that hard to believe," I say.

"I liked books and I got top marks in my classes," she shrugs. "I was also this odd artist girl besides."

"The only way you could make it worse is if you were in the school band, too," I say, smiling a little.

"I was," she admits. "I played the flute."

I laugh now and squeeze her. "Well, I was on the football team, but I also hung around the art rooms a lot."

"But I bet you still dated," she says.

"Um, yeah."

"Well, I went to University, and the second week there I met my first boyfriend. It was short-lived, because apparently he didn't realize how much he was pining away for some girl back home who was a couple of years younger than him. He was a first-year as well."

"What was his name?" I ask.

"Eric. We met at a party."

"Really? I wouldn't have pegged you as a party girl," I say.

"I wasn't. I was _at_ the party, but I wasn't _partying._ "

"Got it. So how long did Eric last?" I ask.

"About a week," she says, chuckling. "I have no idea whatever happened to him and that girl."

"Do you care?"

"Not really," she shrugs.

"Then I dated this guy Brian for a couple of months. He was in a lot of my classes."

"And what was _his_ deal?" I ask.

"We had too much in common," she says. "At least that's what he told me. I found out a few months later from his friends that he actually broke up with me because I wouldn't put out."

"Yeah, that'll happen," I say. No point in lying to her.

"Arthur!" she exclaims, surprised.

"I'm not saying that it's right or justified, but it does happen. Particularly at University."

"Spoken like a man with something to confess." She looks pointedly at me.

"Okay, yes, I've done that. Once. First year, like the idiot that I was. Broke up with a girl because she wouldn't have sex with me, but I told her that I 'needed space.' Awful, I know."

"I'm beginning to think that I'm glad I met you when I did," she says.

"And I wish I'd met you sooner," I say. "But then again, perhaps not. Who was after Brian?"

"Tim Helios. Rugby player. Hot. Muscular. Shaved head."

"Shaved head?" I ask.

"It looked really good on him," she says. "He was two years older. He saw me walking with this girl Lily, who lived across the hall from me. He knew her, and talked to her about meeting me."

"How industrious," I say.

"He thought I was 'fascinating,'" she says.

"Well, he's not wrong," I say, kissing her nose.

"We went out for over a year. He… he was my first," she says quietly. "I wasn't his."

"Did you love him?" I ask. "I promise I'm not jealous," I add quickly. "There's a reason you're not still with him."

"I thought I did. That's why I went all the way with him. That's when I went on the pill, too."

"What happened?" I ask.

"I thought things were going well. He met my father and brother. I met his mum. I was in my second year, he was in his final year, and we were even talking now and then about what we'll do once he graduated and I was still in school. I… I thought he would ask me to marry him."

"He didn't, though," I say. Thank God for that.

"No. Three months before graduation, he broke up with me. He told me that he thought I was wonderful and special and all that rot, but he just 'didn't want to be in a relationship right now.'"

"I've used that one, too," I admit quietly.

"You've probably used most of the pick-up and break-up lines out there," she says. She doesn't seem too bothered by this. "In any case, it was complete bollocks."

"How do you know?"

"Two weeks later, I saw him with another girl. Some tall blonde thing with fake tits," she says. I laugh; I can't help it. She laughs, too, actually. "And it hit me: it wasn't that he didn't want to be in a relationship. He didn't want to be in a relationship with _me._ "

"I'm sorry, Guinevere," I say.

"I'm not. Not anymore," she says. "I chalked him up to experience and got over it. Eventually."

I rub her back and kiss her forehead.

"It was a whole year wasted," she sighs. "From November to February the following year. Ha, he even broke up with me before Valentine's Day. Probably to save himself a few quid."

"Probably," I agree. "Again, I'm not saying that it's right, I'm just saying that it's… likely accurate."

"Then that summer my dad died. After that, dating didn't matter. I concentrated on my studies, knowing I needed to do well for him. I was the first in my family to go to University," she says, looking up at me.

"What did your mother do?"

"She didn't work. Her plan was to stay at home and raise Elyan and me."

I kiss her forehead again. "Anyone after this Helios character?"

"Just Lance. And you know about him," she says. "So not sordid or even very interesting, but there it is."

"It was interesting," I say. I still want to hurt Lance. And now this Tim Helios person has been added to that list as well.

I look down at her. Her eyes are closed. "You're tired," I say. I reach for the remote and flip the telly off. Then I switch the light off as well.

"You don't have to turn everything off," she says.

"I'm tired, too," I say. I lean down and kiss her lips. Part of me really wants to make love to her, but most of me knows that it would be too painful, emotionally speaking.

"One more," she breathes when I release her lips.

I dive back in, kissing her longer, deeper, until my heart feels like it's going to burst.

"Sleep well," I whisper. She turns and I fit myself around her small body.

"You, too," she says. "Don't lie awake too long, now. You need sleep, too."

As always, she reads me like a book.

But I just want to lay here and hold her in the dark with nothing distracting me.

Soaking her in.

Committing her to memory.

Because I don't know.


	60. Day 59

I think about calling in today. I don't really want to go to work. Yesterday, Father was on my arse for being distracted all the time. Leon was going back and forth between tiptoeing around me like he's afraid that I'm going to go postal and looking at me forlornly, as if he didn't believe me when I told him I wasn't dying.

But what the hell else am I going to do? Sit around and mope? Guinevere woke me a few minutes ago with a series of soft kisses on my cheek and forehead. She'd just gotten out of the shower and smelled wonderful.

Now she's getting dressed and I'm hiding.

"Love, you need to get up," she urges softly, pulling her t-shirt over her head. She sits beside me on the bed. "I know it's hard, but you need to get up and face the day." She runs her fingers through my hair, gently untangling it.

"I know," I sigh. "Maybe work will be a distraction enough. Leon wants to do lunch today. I don't think I'm up for it." I sit up now.

"Then tell him so. He'll understand," she says. I pull her over to me, holding her against my chest, wrapping my arms around her small frame.

She winds her arms around my waist, holding me as I hold her.

"What should I do, Guinevere? Tell me," I say softly.

She heaves a long sigh. "You should do exactly what you feel like doing, Arthur," she finally says. "That's all I know. I know I keep repeating myself, but you need to trust this." She kisses the center of my chest, over my heart, indicating what she means by _this._

Trust. Feelings. Two of the things I struggle with.

I trust Guinevere. I trust Merlin, even though I've only known him a short time. I've forgotten how to trust myself.

And my feelings? I've been keeping those so carefully guarded for so long that now that I've let myself _feel_ something, I don't know what to do with myself. I feel so _much_ when it comes to her. It scares me.

"Arthur?" she asks, looking up at me.

"Yeah, I'm here," I say. I kiss her forehead. "I'll get up. I don't want to make you late for work."

xXx

Work sucks. I try to work on my design. I close my door to keep people from bothering me. Guinevere packed a lunch for me while I was in the shower, and I eat it at my desk. I told Leon that I wasn't up for going out to lunch, and Guinevere was right. He understood.

He still gave me an odd, I'm-concerned-about-you-but-I'm-trying-to-hide-it look, which I ignored.

I will tell him. I owe it to him to come clean.

Guinevere texts me periodically. Nothing deep or important, just little things. She finished that bracelet and sends me a picture of it. It's very cool.

I snap a shot of my design and send it to her. She says she likes it a lot.

I'm going over to her flat tonight for dinner, but I'm not sure if I can stay over.

I'm also not sure if I can leave.

It might be our last night together. I should stay. I _want_ to stay.

But it hurts.

No. Stop it. She told me this morning to do what I feel like doing. I feel like…

I don't know. It's kind of strange advice. Usually when a bird tells me "do what you feel like," it's because she's annoyed with me because I've just told her I want to watch the joust with my friends instead of going to tea at her great-aunt's house. Or something along those lines.

Guinevere is different, though. She says what she actually means.

My phone buzzes again.

_G: Sefa has been hovering all day. It's starting to get on my nerves._

_A: She senses something big is happening?_

_G: Yes. She won't ask, but she knows something's up._

_A: I think Leon is afraid I'm going to snap and go postal in the office._

_G: You did look rather haunted today._

So it's not all light conversation, I guess. It's to be expected.

I leave at 4:30. I can't take it anymore. I'm phoning in tomorrow anyway, so I feign illness and tell Father I'm going home.

I text Guinevere from the parking lot.

_A: I've had it. Leaving work now._

I head home and stare at my garment bag. To pack or not to pack? That is the question.

Pack. If I don't, then I'm committed to not staying.

Well, sort of. I could still stay with nothing packed. I've certainly done that before. And I have a toothbrush there.

But I don't want to upset her by showing up without a bag.

So: Pack.

I stuff some pants, a t-shirt, and a pair of jeans in my duffel bag. I change out of my work clothes and into a t-shirt and the plaid pajama bottoms. I don't bloody care what I look like.

_G: Come in through the shop and I'll give you the key._

_A: What about Sefa?_

_G: She may give you a meaningful look, but she won't say anything._

xXx

Sefa does indeed give me a meaningful look. It's a look full of pity and fear. She's very worried about both of us.

I manage a smile and duck into the back, where Guinevere is working on someone's ring.

"Hey," I say softly.

"Hi," she answers, not looking up from what she's doing. I move closer and see that she's just bending a prong over a diamond.

"Setting the stone?" I ask.

"Mmm-hmm. One more prong," she says.

"Take your time. Do you mind me watching?"

"Not at all."

I watch as she fixes the last one in place. Her hands are steady and sure. "That's not one of yours," I say.

She looks up. She's wearing glasses that make her lovely eyes look extra large. "You can tell?"

"Um, yeah," I say. "That ring is ugly."

She laughs suddenly and takes the glasses off. "I won't be getting any ideas from _this_ particular family heirloom."

I smile a little, then bend to kiss her, stroking her cheek with my thumb.

"I just want to finish this up," she says. "Key is over there."

She's got her keyring sitting in a dish on a shelf by the door that leads up to her flat.

"Are burgers all right for dinner?" she asks as I pick up the keys.

"Of course, anything is fine. I don't have much of an appetite, though," I say.

"Neither do I," she says. "But we need to eat."

"I know. Don't be too long," I say.

"I won't be. Nice trousers," she smiles a little.

"Lazy." I shrug.

I head upstairs. My legs feel heavy. I let myself in, toss my bag in her room, and sit on her couch. I flip on the telly for the noise, but I don't really watch it.

Her sketchpad and a pencil are sitting on the coffee table. I pick it up and start to doodle on a blank page. Instead of doodling my normal geometric patterns, I find that I'm drawing Guinevere.

I have some talent for portraiture. I'm not fantastic at it; my interpretation tends to be a bit stylized, but the few times I've attempted it have been met with praise. I drew my mother once, from a photo. Leon said it was brilliant. I didn't show it to Father.

Gwen comes in 20 minutes later. She immediately takes her shoes off. "Hello," she says, pausing to give me a kiss as she haltingly walks to her room, yanking her socks off as she goes.

"Feet troubling you?" I ask.

"Little bit. I was standing a lot today, despite what you saw when you arrived," she calls from her room.

She comes out wearing striped pajama bottoms and the same t-shirt she had on, but it appears that she's taken off her bra.

"What are you—oh, goodness," she gasps, sinking down beside me on the couch. "That's me, isn't it?"

"I'm glad you recognize it," I say.

"It's wonderful. I had no idea you could draw like that."

"I don't do it much. Usually I need to work from a photo or actually have the person there, but…" I pause, looking up. "Your face seems to be imprinted on my brain."

She leans over and kisses me softly.

"I love it," she says. "I'm going to go make supper."

"Okay. Do you need me to help?"

"No," she chuckles.

"Then I'll just stay here," I say. I go back to my drawing.

xXx

It's Tuesday night, which means _Undead Zone_ is on. However, I don't much fancy watching people fighting for existence against zombies right now.

It's my favorite program, but it seems to hit a little too close to home, in a strange sort of way.

Guinevere seems to sense this, so she casually puts on a football match after dinner.

"What should we do?" I ask after a bit. I know she's not interested in watching the match.

"Are you talking right now or more big-picture?" she asks. It's a fair question.

"I meant right now. I can't think about big-picture things at the moment," I answer.

She turns in my arms, facing me. "What do you think about writing those letters?"

"Now?" I ask, confused. I had kind of filed that activity away as a possibility for when I'm alone forever. If that happens.

"Yes, now. I've been thinking about this since you mentioned it yesterday."

"You have?"

"Yes. You said that you won't have the capacity for love if we don't fix this, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, I think in order to write these letters effectively, you'll need to be able to use these emotions that you may no longer possess."

"You're probably right," I admit. She's always right. Why do I bother questioning her? I peck her lips softly.

"But now?"

" _Yes,_ " she urges, standing up. "It will give you something else to concentrate on. Come on." She holds her hand out to me and pulls me to my feet.

"You're stronger than you look," I mutter, following her back to the kitchen. I sit at the table, and she walks away. "Hey, where are you going?" I ask. My voice sounds a bit more desperate than it should.

She stops and comes back. "I'm just going to get some decent writing paper and a pen," she says, bending to kiss my forehead. I think she knows how pathetic I'm feeling right now.

Paper and a pen. We're doing this the hard way. So, no typing up a letter and then plopping in the appropriate name at the top for each printing.

Putting in the effort is the least I can do, I guess.

She returns with some stationery (I didn't think people even had stationery anymore), a yellow legal pad, and two pens. She sets the legal pad in front of me.

"Rough draft?" I ask.

"Names," she says, sitting in the other chair. "Write them all down so you don't forget anyone. Can you remember them all?"

"I think so," I say. I start writing.

_Emma_

_Colleen_

_Denise_

_Meena_

_Becca_

_Isabel_

_Elena_

_Danielle_

_Caitlin_

_Jayasri_

_Lisa_

_Sara_

_Vivian_

"You did that pretty fast," she says, looking at the list.

"I've always been good with names," I say, twirling the pen in my fingers.

She helps me choose the correct words, thankfully. We get into a brief debate on how to close, trying to decide if I should tell them about Guinevere or not. I would really love to, but I can't put it in writing to them if we fail in our quest to lift my curse.

We decide on two options. One if the Good Thing happens and one if the Bad Thing happens, to be filled in after tomorrow.

The letters will be roughly the same, all based on the same basic form. I might add personalization as I see fit. I'll likely do that with Elena's letter. I really do want to wish her the best in her marriage.

We decide on the following basic form:

_Dear [Name],_

_I know I am probably the last person you want to hear from, but please do me the courtesy of reading this letter. I know I do not deserve this courtesy, but as I am writing to apologize, it is my hope that you will continue to read and allow me to explain my behavior._

_There is no easy way to explain myself to you other than to just come right out and state it plainly: When I was with you, I was living under a curse placed on me by my sister. She is a powerful witch and was punishing me for my past actions by setting a curse on my head that allows me to only date a woman for 60 days. That is why I often behaved strangely or poorly when I was with you; that is the reason for the abrupt end to our relationship. [Cite specific examples as applicable]_

_This is not something of which I am proud. It is not something I have ever admitted to anyone till very recently. My sister's actions, while harsh, have forced me to become a better person and treat women with more respect._

_As I said, I am writing to apologize. I apologize for getting you involved in the mess that I made of my life. You did not ask to be a part of this, and you did not even know you were. I lied to you. I deceived you both with my words and my actions. You deserved better than what I gave you, and I am truly sorry._

_Version 1:_

_I have recently found my way out of this curse and I hope that you are well and happy. It is not my wish to trouble you or bring up old hurts. I simply wish to say that I am sorry for how I treated you and hope you can forgive me. I wish you all the happiness you truly deserve._

_Version 2:_

_I have recently decided to stop following the guidelines of the curse and resign myself to the consequences this decision brings. This means I will no longer be using women the way I used you and have no choice but to remain single for the rest of my life._

_I hope that you are well and happy. It is not my wish to trouble you or bring up old hurts. I simply wish to say that I am sorry for how I treated you and hope you can forgive me. I wish you all the happiness you truly deserve._

_[Add any additional notes as desired]_

_Sincerely,_

_Arthur Pendragon_

xXx

I work diligently, writing at Guinevere's kitchen table. My hand is aching a bit after the third letter, but I press on.

She stays with me, doing little things like bringing me a glass of water and organizing the finished letters. I think she knows I don't want her too far away.

As I work, I realize she's right. Doing this keeps my brain occupied. It gives me a task; something to do other than worry.

I am just starting the fifth letter when she stands and starts to leave the table.

"Where are you going?" I ask, looking up, alarmed. Any minute apart from her is a minute too long.

"Just to the loo, Arthur," she says gently, touching my cheek.

I go back to my letter, continuing to copy the form we agreed upon. I get to the point where I need to stop, and I realize that she's been gone a while. I look to see if she's somewhere in the flat, and I see that the bathroom door is still closed.

A moment later, it opens, and I look back down at my letter, reading it over.

"Sorry I was gone so long," she apologizes when she returns.

I look up at her. "Just tell me that you were… flossing your teeth or fixing your hair or something."

Her face slowly changes from puzzled to amused.

"I prefer to operate under the illusion that women don't do that," I say.

"Very well. I was… checking my hair for split ends. That do?" she asks. She wants to laugh at me.

"I know, it's stupid and juvenile. But let me have my fantasy that women don't poo."

 _Now_ she laughs. "How far are you now?" she asks, sitting.

"Just finished number five," I say, handing it to her.

"Okay… Becca," she says, setting the paper on the stack with a little envelope tucked around the pages. I have to get the addresses later. I'll have to get Elena's from Mayor Godwin. The Internet is wonderful, but I don't know her married name. Maybe I could have Father get it, have him tell Godwin that he wants to send them a wedding gift… no. Man up and… be a man. I'll just tell Godwin that I want to apologize and wish his daughter well. And hope he believes me and will give me her address.

"Isabel," she declares, handing me a new sheet of paper.

"Isabel," I repeat. "Isabel from Ibiza…" I mutter.

"What was that?" she asks, curious.

"She was from Spain. 'Isabel from Ibiza.'"

"Ah. Got it," she says. "Have you ever been there? I mean, before this curse business?"

"No. Father has. You?"

"No. I haven't been many places."

"We can add it to the list, if you like," I suggest.

"I'll think about it," she smiles.

I realize she's smiling because I didn't say "If we figure this thing out" or put any other such qualifier on my statement.

I smile, too.

xXx

I give up for the night after I finish Elena's letter. It's the longest one so far. Guinevere understands, watching me write, even nodding approvingly when I write that I want nothing but happiness for her because she deserves nothing less.

"My eyes feel like they're falling out of my head," I say, handing her the paper and dropping the pen on the table. I've written seven letters. I'm just about halfway. I've got the most difficult one done, the one I needed to get through before Day 60.

"It's late," she says softly, taking my hand between hers and massaging it. "Your hand is sore."

"My heart is sore," I say. She moves and sits on my lap, never releasing my hand.

"I know," she whispers. "Let's go to bed."

I sigh. "I don't know if I can stay," I say.

"What?" she asks. She looks confused and hurt.

"I also don't think I can leave," I clarify, dropping my head on her shoulder.

"I don't want you to leave," she whispers, releasing my hand to caress my cheek.

"I don't want to leave… ever…" I whisper back, tucking my face into her neck, inhaling deeply.

Then I sigh. "But… I don't want to have this whole 'this could be our last night together' feeling… to feel like I have to put _meaning_ on everything just because we don't know what's going to happen tomorrow."

"It… it won't be our last night together," she says, her voice low. For the first time, her voice lacks the conviction it usually has when she says such things, and it tears my heart.

Her sudden, unexpected uncertainty renews my resolve. She _cannot_ lose faith. I will admit, I've been wavering, walking that thin line between hope and despair. But hearing her falter… no. This will not do.

"You're right," I say, lifting my head. "It won't be." I take a deep breath and lean my forehead against hers. "We have tomorrow yet to get this sorted. Something will happen. Something will point me the right way." I tilt my head and kiss her.

"Yes," she nods, the action moving both our heads. "We can't give up hope now, not when we have… 25 hours left."

"Let's go to bed," I say, hooking my arm under her knees and standing, carrying her to her bedroom.

We prepare for bed quietly. She takes her pajamas out of her wardrobe and sort of glances at me, unsure.

"I don't think I could bear making love to you tonight," I say, walking over to her. I'm already undressed down to my boxer briefs.

"I don't think I could either," she admits quietly and begins to undress, taking her striped pajama bottoms off to swap them out for shorts.

"Would you…?" I begin to ask, but then lose my nerve. I'm suddenly unsure of myself.

"Hmm?" she asks. She's just in her t-shirt and panties now.

"Nothing," I say.

"What is it, Arthur? Anything you'd like, please, just ask."

"I was wondering… if you would leave the pajamas off. I… I want to feel your skin against mine." I run my finger down the length of her arm. "You can leave your panties on… in fact, you probably should," I add with a small chuckle.

"Of course, Arthur," she says, removing her t-shirt and tossing it in the hamper.

We walk to the bed together, climb in together, and lie together, holding each other close.

Her skin is like warm silk under my hands, against my chest, sliding against my legs, against my lips. Her wonderful curls are still secured in their braid from the day, but I know better than to ask her to unwind it for me. She would do it, but I won't ask.

"Good night, Arthur. Do try to sleep," she whispers, pressing her lips to mine.

"Good night, Guinevere. I'll try. Please get some sleep as well." I kiss her lips once more, then her cheek, her temple, and finally her forehead as she settles in against me.

We lie facing one another on our sides, Guinevere in my arms, clinging to each other in the middle of the bed.

Is it possible that this could be the last time I can feel this way, feel her giving me strength, feel how she makes my heart swell just with her presence? Is it possible that after tomorrow, I'll never feel this kind of happiness, happiness that is currently like a knife in my gut and heart?

Or is it possible that I'll be able to experience this kind of bliss for the rest of my life? Can I be fortunate enough to find my way out so that I might be able to stay with my Guinevere for the rest of our lives?

The sands in my hourglass prison are up to my chin.


	61. Day 60

_The warm, salt-tinged breeze blows across my skin, cooling it while the blazing tropical sun warms me. Us. Her strong, slender hand is in mine as we walk, toes in the wet sand, the surf lapping at our ankles as it washes in and out._

_I glance over and see her, my Guinevere, in a red bikini with a thin floral sarong slung around her hips, blowing in the breeze so her lovely legs occasionally come into view._

_She's beautiful, an island goddess, her unbound curls wild and free, playthings of the wind._

_She smiles up at me and it feels like birds have taken flight in my stomach._

_She kisses me and it feels like my heart wants to swell and burst forth from my chest._

_Her skin is soft under my hands, her lips are supple and delicious under mine._

_The kiss ends and I gaze down at her, losing myself in the pools of honey that are her eyes._

_"I love you, Guinevere," I whisper._

My eyes snap open. I look at the clock; it's nearly seven.

My heart is pounding.

Maybe I _should_ go to work. Maybe it will help me keep my mind occupied. It worked last night, right? Maybe working on a task to keep me from driving myself insane is the key.

But I need to go home first since I didn't pack work clothes for today.

I kiss her forehead and slip out of bed.

"Arthur?" Her sleepy voice sounds behind me.

"I've got to go," I say, pulling my clothes on. My limbs feel like they're made of lead. My clothes feel like they're made of barbed wire. "I'm going to work."

"I thought you were going to call in," she says. I can't look at her. I just can't.

"It'll keep my mind occupied," I say. I hope that's true. "You should do the same," I suggest. I honestly have no idea if she was planning on working today or not. She never said, but part of me suspects that she wasn't going to, since she worked to finish that bracelet yesterday.

I throw my underwear in my bag, give her another kiss on the forehead, and start walking away.

I pause just inside her bedroom door, turning back to look at her.

"Um…" I have no idea what to say.

"Arthur…" She doesn't, either. Her eyes are large and glassy. She looks like she's waiting for me to say something.

My lips twitch into the smallest, saddest smile I have ever smiled, and I leave.

The first thing I do when I get home is throw up.

I can't go to work. Who the hell am I kidding?

After I rinse my mouth and brush my teeth (I was in such a hurry to leave Guinevere's – why did I do that? – that I didn't even brush or shower), I go back to my door and pull the keys out of the lock, where they were still dangling. Again.

Then I grab my bag from where I dropped it and shuffle to my room. I drop my bag, kick my flip-flops across the room, and collapse on my bed.

My big, _empty_ bed.

I pull my mobile out of my pocket, text my father that I'm still under the weather, set it on Vibrate, and toss it on the nightstand.

I feel like utter and complete shit.

My phone vibrates a minute later. I ignore it.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, for what seems like an eternity. My phone vibrates a few more times. Once was a phone call, I think. The buzzing was more persistent and regular.

I'll check them later.

I should take a shower. I should eat.

The thought of food is repugnant, so I go to the shower.

The hot water feels good. I stand under the spray, not doing anything. My mind can't help but drift back to Sunday morning, in this shower.

I absentmindedly rub the tips of my fingers with my thumbs, remembering the feel of her wet hair between them.

I lean my head against the cold tile wall as I remember the feel of her mouth around me.

I don't know what to do.

I'm fairly certain I would know if this curse was gone.

I wouldn't feel like I've been sentenced to death.

I can't think straight. I _can't_ relax and just let the solution present itself. I'm _too bloody scared._

Numbly, I reach for the soap, my movements automatic.

She said she would help me. Why isn't she helping?

Why can't she just tell me what to do?

_Trust yourself. You don't do that enough._

Merlin told me to trust myself. Guinevere has said the same thing.

However, I have a history of being bollocks at looking after myself.

Like when I was seven, on my first real football team. I was so excited. Leon and Percival were on the team as well. Percival, because of his size (he was always big), was immediately made goaltender. Leon was made a midfielder, because he had the most stamina. I got to be a forward, which means I got to be the one to score the goals. It was everything I wanted. I knew my father would be proud.

We had our games on Saturday mornings.

_Father was out of town for a convention, so that meant I got to stay with Leon until Monday. Father liked Leon's parents, since they had money, too. I liked them because they were nice and paid attention to me._

_Leon's house was fun._

_My house was stifling. I had toys, sure, pretty much everything I wanted, I could have. Everything except a mother who was alive and a father who wanted me._

_Our footie match was on Saturday morning. Father dropped me off at Leon's an hour before game time, sending me off with a pat on the head and a "Be good."_

_I was always good. Acting out got me attention, but the wrong kind. So I behaved and hoped to garner favor that way. Sometimes it worked. Mostly not._

_The game was good. We were winning. I scored a goal, the only one. Nothing got past Percival, which was normal. He was big, but he was fast. Coach had to keep a copy of Percival's birth certificate with him at games because he regularly got accused of being too old to play in our league._

_Then it happened. I ran into one of the players on the other team, and he accidentally kicked my leg instead of the ball. Caught me on the side of the left knee. I fell, clenching my jaw tightly to keep from crying._

_It hurt. It hurt bad. But I wasn't a baby. I didn't want the other boys to see me cry._

_The referee blew his whistle and Coach came over to see if I was all right. I could see Leon's mum fretting on the sidelines. I nodded and said I was fine, hobbling to my feet._

_He took me out anyway, for a little while. I was the best forward on the team. He asked me if I needed an ice pack._

_"I'm okay," I said. It really hurt, but I didn't want anyone to know. Father would be disappointed in my carelessness, so I kept the pain a secret._

_I went back in, stubbornly not limping, or so I thought. It hurt like hell, though. I was a little scared, but I was more afraid of my father._

_"Are you sure you're not hurt, Arthur? That was a nasty hit," Leon's dad had asked me after the game. Both his parents were studying me intently, worried._

_"I'm fine," I lied. Leon's mum didn't look like she believed me, but she ruffled my sweaty hair and piled me into the car with Leon._

_My goal was the only point scored for the entire game, so we got to go to McDonald's for lunch after the game as a treat. We even got chocolate shakes._

_Father never took me to McDonald's, so it was extra-special forbidden fruit to me._

_We went back to Leon's house and changed. My knee was starting to look a little puffy now, so after staring at it for a long time, hiding in the bathroom, I took one of the tube socks from my soccer kit and made a rudimentary attempt to wrap my knee like I'd seen the professionals do when I watch football on telly. Then I pulled my jeans on over it and inspected my work._

_Not too bad. I walked carefully out and joined Leon in the den. The weather had turned, so he was setting up the PlayStation. I parked myself in one of the beanbag chairs we always use when we play and stayed put._

_We spent the afternoon playing. Leon's mum brought us juice and cookies for a snack. She asked about my knee again, and I told her it was fine. Leon's dad even took a break from whatever he was puttering with in the garage to come and sit with us and watch us kill each other playing Mortal Kombat._

_Of course he never would take a side, no matter how many times we would ask him who he was cheering for._

_I managed to keep up my ruse for the day, grateful for the foul weather. If Leon had wanted to go outside and play, I wouldn't have been able to keep up and would have been found out for sure._

_Then I see what I have packed for sleepwear. Shorts and a t-shirt. My heart sank._

_I put off changing into my pajamas as long as I could, hoping that my makeshift ace bandage would help._

_Finally I had to give in, using the bathroom first to unwrap my knee. I think it looks better. There was a big sock mark around my leg, but I hoped that the light was dim enough that it wouldn't be too noticeable._

_I come out, change, and quickly climbed into the trundle bed that's been pulled out from under Leon's bed._

_"Come on, mate, you're not sleepy already, are you?" Leon had asked, looking at me like he couldn't believe I was actually going to go to bed just because it's bedtime._

_"Um, yeah," I said, lying again. "I'm pretty tired."_

_"Nancy," Leon called me, throwing a stuffed frog at my head._

_Boys never admit that they are tired._

_"Don't call me Nancy, Mary Jane." I threw it back at him and he caught it easily, sticking his tongue out at me. I briefly considered confessing to Leon that my knee really hurt, but I didn't want to make him lie to his parents for me._

_This was my problem. I could handle it myself._

_"Well, if you're so tired, I guess I'll just read. Poop-head."_

_"Turd-brain," I answered, flipping on my side, away from him and his small reading light._

_There was a light tap on the door. "Boys, are you all right?"_

_"Fine, Dad," he called._

_The door cracked open. "Oh," he remarked, surprised by the sight of Leon in his bed, reading a book and me below, curled in my bed. "It was too quiet, so I thought I'd better investigate. Arthur, you feeling okay there, mate?"_

_"Yes, just a bit sleepy," I said._

_"All right, then. Leon, not too late with the reading," he said. "Good night, boys."_

_"Good night, Dad."_

_"Good night, Mr. Foreman."_

_The next morning, my leg looked like an uncooked sausage. I could barely move it, and when I did, I could no longer hide my pain._

_I was panicked. I didn't know what to do. I was trapped in the bed._

_"Arthur," Leon bounded into the room. He was always up way too early. "Come on, mate, get up. Mum's made waffles." He reached down and swatted at my legs._

_I screamed. Then Leon screamed. I scared him._

_"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he apologized immediately, his eyes wide and frightened. "What did I do?"_

_"Um, nothing," I croaked, flipping over, hiding my face so he couldn't see my tears._

_"Dad!" Leon called, panicked now as well. "Dad!"_

_"I'm fine, Leon," I said, still hiding._

_"What's wrong?" Leon's dad was already in the doorway, having come when he heard our screams._

_"Arthur's hurt. I think I hurt him," Leon said, his voice breaking now, he was so upset._

_"I'm fine. You didn't hurt me, Leon," I said._

_"Arthur," Leon's dad said, crouching down beside the trundle bed, "what's wrong? You can tell me; I won't be angry."_

_I moved a little, rolling back over, wincing in pain. I hastily wiped my face with my hand and flipped the blanket back._

_"Oh, dear," Mr. Foreman muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed. "This is from the match yesterday?"_

_I nodded._

_"Is everything all right?" Leon's mum was in the doorway now. She saw my swollen leg and gasped loudly. "Arthur! You said you were fine!"_

_"I'm sorry… I… I didn't want to be any bother…" I said, fresh tears springing to my eyes._

_Leon still looked like he'd seen a ghost, holding onto his mother's waist now. She rubbed his back a moment, then said, "I knew you were more hurt than you let on. I should have looked at your knee."_

_"We need to take you to hospital," Leon's dad declared. "You might have a break in there."_

_"No! No, don't…" I exclaimed, trying to sit up now._

_"Arthur, we need to get it x-rayed," he pressed, helping me to sit up._

_"But…"_

_"Arthur," Mr. Foreman said, softer now, sitting next to me on the bed. "What are you afraid of? Going to hospital?"_

_I shook my head no._

_"Getting x-rayed?"_

_"X-rays are cool," Leon piped in, coming over to sit on my other side. "Remember when I broke my arm? I got to see my bones!"_

_"No, that doesn't scare me," I sniffed._

_"Dear, the doctor will help you feel better. You know that, right?" Leon's mum asked._

_I nod. "Father's going to be cross with me," I mumble._

_"What was that?" Leon's dad asked._

_"He said his dad's going to be mad," Leon translated._

_"Why on earth would your father be angry?" Mr. Foreman asked._

_"Because he always gets mad when I hurt myself…" I said, louder. The tears started again, and Mrs. Foreman handed me a tissue. I pressed it to my face so hard that I saw stars. "He'll be mad because I was careless…"_

_Leon's dad wrapped his arm around my shoulders. "Arthur, we're taking you to hospital. I'm sorry, but there's no arguing that. I'll speak to your father. I will explain to him what happened. We saw the whole thing. There was no way this was your fault."_

_"I'm sorry I lied," I said, tears still rolling down my cheeks. "And now we won't get waffles…"_

_"I think we can afford 15 minutes to eat a waffle or two, don't you, Amelia?" Leon's dad asked._

_"It's already been a day, what's another 15 minutes?" she agreed, smiling._

_Leon's dad picked me up and carried me downstairs so I wouldn't have to walk._

_"You boys eat up," he said. "I'm just going to call Uther and let him know what's going on. And get your insurance information."_

_In the end, I had a bad sprain. I was disappointed that I wouldn't get a cool cast, but I did get my leg all wrapped up like a real footie player and the pretty nurse kept calling me "sweetie" and "ducky."_

_Father wasn't pleased with the news. He didn't yell at me when I saw him, but he didn't come home early from his trip, either._

My hands are completely pruned now. I've been standing in the shower for far too long. Have I washed my hair? I don't know. I reach up and touch it. It's soaking wet and it _feels_ clean, so I probably have.

Even so, I reach for the bottle again and give it a quick wash.

 _Another_ quick wash, that is. In the middle of it, I realize that I did wash my hair already. Oh well.

I dry myself off and dress unthinkingly, grabbing my Dragons trousers and a black t-shirt. I was in the shower for half an hour, thinking about my sad little seven-year-old self.

Then I remember that day in the Darkling Wood while we were hiking. Father thought it would be a good "bonding experience" for Morgana and me. She lived with her mum, but came over every other Sunday per the legal agreement.

I wandered ahead and wound up lost. I was nine. I tried to find my own way back and wound up more lost. So that didn't turn out any better.

I was found some time later, cold and frightened, by a park ranger and returned to my furious father, who put me on restriction for two weeks after berating me in front of everyone for being such a nuisance and ruining the afternoon.

So, it's not really all that unexpected that I don't entirely trust myself.

I look at my mobile. Both Guinevere and Leon have tried calling. And there are texts.

From Leon: _You okay, mate? Call me if you need anything._

From Guinevere: _How are you? I miss you and I'm worried about you._

And: _Sefa is worried, too. Please call me._

Also: _Can we meet for lunch, please?_

Finally, from Father: _What is wrong with you?_

I set my mobile back down on my nightstand and walk to the kitchen. I can't tell if I'm hungry or ill, so I make some toast.

I stare into the toaster, watching the coils glow red. I always wondered what would happen if I stuck my finger in there. Would I get a little squiggly-line scar that matches the coils inside, or would it not be that detailed?

Obviously I've never tested this theory. The toast pops and my mind snaps back to reality enough to butter it.

I carry it to the living room on a napkin and flop down on the couch. I should have made some tea.

Not getting up again, though.

I munch my toast and channel surf. Daytime telly is complete bollocks, but I'm not really watching it anyway, so it doesn't matter. I leave the channel on a game show because it's better than those mindless chat programs.

I stare at it, watching disinterestedly as the contestants jump around and shriek excitedly when their names are called and they come down to guess the price of some bloody prize that no one bloody needs.

Currently it's a silver tea service. It's rather ugly, I think.

_Poor Arthur, always expecting everything to be handed to him on a silver platter._

Morgana's words drift back into my brain, taunting me, almost hovering visibly in front of my face.

But she's right. I do that. The easy thing would be to blame my father, to say it's how I was raised. And that's true. I was raised to feel entitled.

Money. Cars. Whims. Perks. _Things_.

However, I was also feeling entitled to women.

The things I did were all choices I made. Bad choices. I know this now.

Trust myself. That's _so_ hard.

Trust Guinevere. That's _so_ easy.

But she hasn't given me much to work with. I'm trusting her, and she's telling me to trust myself. It's like that snake eating its own tail.

I sigh. Guinevere is helping me as much as she can, out of the goodness of her overlarge heart. I didn't ask. She offered. She didn't _have_ to help me.

Am I relying on her too much? Probably.

She _wanted_ to help me.

She wanted to help because… because she loves me?

xXx

I think I dozed off. I was restless last night, so I likely didn't sleep as well as I should have. My grandfather clock chiming noon woke me up, I think.

Noon already. Twelve hours left.

I've wasted half my day.

But I suppose I should be thankful that I slept at all.

I get up off the couch, stretching my stiff neck, and drag my sorry arse to the loo.

Bladder empty, I look at my mobile again.

Two more missed calls from Guinevere, one from Father, and some more texts.

_L: Thought I'd check in and see how you are. Worried about you._

_G: Please call me, Arthur. You're scaring me._

_G: Don't shut me out, Arthur. Not now._

I feel very small. I'm frightening Guinevere now. I never wanted to do that. I decide to reply to her.

_A: I'm okay._

It's a terrible reply, but I honestly don't know what to say. If I tell her how I'm really feeling, she'll come over and… I really want to see her.

And I really _don't_ want to see her.

I set my mobile down and wander back out. I make myself a cold ham and cheese sandwich and look inside my fridge for something to drink. I decide that it's not too early for a beer.

I think I hear my phone buzzing in my bedroom. I should set it to Silent.

I _should_ go answer the bloody thing.

I _do_ walk to the couch, sandwich in one hand, bottle in the other, and sit.

My sandwich has no flavor.

Neither does my beer.

The telly is a loud, annoying box with too much color.

I feel like I'm slowly dying from the inside out.

This is what my life will be after today.

If I don't _bloody figure out what to do._

Nothing is coming to me.

I had a fleeting thought last night that my letters would have some effect. More of a fleeting hope than a fleeting thought.

I told Guinevere about the curse. I let her see the real me. I practically worship the ground she walks on.

_Do something different this time._

What more can I do, Merlin? Someone please tell me.

_Trust yourself._

Trust yourself, trust yourself, trust yourself. The phrase is starting to get on my nerves. It mocks me.

It mocks the fact that when I trust myself, I do things like ignore a severely sprained knee, get lost in the woods, and use women and toss them aside when I'm bored.

I take another swig of my beer, emptying it. My sandwich seems to have disappeared. Either I ate it or it's in the couch.

I sit and stare some more. I don't seem to have the energy to function.

It's almost like I'm useless without her.

Eventually I go and fetch myself another beer.

Somewhere in my fuzzy brain, I hear the clock chime twice.

Ten hours left.

xXx

The sound of a key in my lock disrupts my pity party. There's only one person it could be.

"Leon, I…" I stop. It's not Leon. "Guinevere…" I think my heart starts beating again.

"You didn't go to work today; you don't answer your mobile. Did you honestly expect me just to roll over and stick my head in the sand?" she asks me. She's standing just inside my door, a bag in one hand, her other hand on her hip.

She's mad. "I…"

"You need to eat," she declares, dropping her purse on the table beside the door. She also takes off her shoes before walking over. She's staying.

She can't stay.

"Guinevere," I try again.

"Don't 'Guinevere' me. I brought fish," she says, setting the bag down amidst the empty beer bottles. She gives me a sideways look, collects the bottles, and marches them into the kitchen and the bin.

"I'm not drunk," I say helplessly.

"You had better not be. I will not be cheated out of my Day 60, Arthur Pendragon," she calls from the kitchen. I hear her getting beverages. Something non-alcoholic, I assume.

"How did you get in here?" I ask.

"I called Leon," she answers, returning with two bottles of water. She flips on the lamp and sits. I blink in the unwelcome light. "When you wouldn't reply to my calls and texts, I called Leon. He said you'd phoned in ill and he's worried sick about you, too. I told him I wanted to bring you some food and asked if he had a spare key to your condo so I wouldn't have to disturb you to get up and let me in."

She's too smart. "When did you get his number?" I ask.

"After the concert in the park. Now eat," she orders, sitting beside me.

"Thank you," I mutter.

"You look like shit," she tells me.

"Wallowing in self-pity will do that to a person," I say. I'm glad she's here. It feels like a knife in my heart, but I'm glad she came.

"Eat," she prompts. "Just eat and… pretend everything is fine. For me," she says.

How can I eat when my stomach is tied in a huge knot? Nevertheless, for her, I pick up a piece of fish.

I feel her attempting to straighten my hair.

"What is with your hair?" she mutters, her fingers untangling.

"I think I forgot to comb it after I showered," I say. "Why aren't you eating?" I ask.

"I already ate," she says. I look at the time. It's after 9:30. "When did you last eat?"

"Around noon, I think." I say.

"What was it?"

"Ham and cheese sandwich."

"Hmm," she says, picking up the remote control, idly flipping channels while I attempt to eat. She stays tight to my side while I pick at my dinner. I really am trying to eat, but it's hard. "You've been ignoring me, Arthur."

"I'm sorry," I mutter. "I was being… pathetic and selfish."

"Were you always planning on phoning in to work?" she asks.

"Yes and no. I was, but when I woke up this morning, I thought I would go. Thought it might help. Then I came home to change clothes…"

"And?" she prompts softly.

"I threw up again."

"Oh, Arthur. Why didn't you return my calls?" she asks. She turns my face, gently forcing me to look at her.

"I didn't know what to say," I answer. "I've been sitting here all day, trying to come up with the answer, and the answer _just won't come!_ " My voice raises and breaks as I finish, and I drop my half-eaten chip on the table.

"Shh," she soothes, wrapping her arms around me sideways, her head on my shoulder. I pick up my water glass, taking a drink. My hand is shaking a little. "It's okay, Arthur. Everything's going to be—"

"It's _not_ okay, Guinevere! I am messing this up like I do every other bloody thing in my life!" I say, struggling to not raise my voice. Her calm demeanor is both reassuring and frustrating at once. I drop my head into my hands.

"I wish I could give you the answer, I really do. But you just need to follow your heart and—"

"Trust myself?" I finish, raising my head and pulling out of her arms. I feel myself starting to crack. " _Trust_ myself? Do you _know_ the kinds of wonderful things that have happened because of me _trusting my bloody self?_ " I yell, slamming my glass down on the table. The glass breaks, water sloshes everywhere, I cut my hand.

Guinevere startles and jumps away from me, her whole body tense, her expression surprised and wary.

Oh, my God. What did I just do?

I just ruined everything, that's what I did. She's going to get up and walk out the door.

Oh, please, no. _Please._

I stare a moment, stunned at my behavior, a heavy silence descending over us as we regard each other, her eyes wide and a little fearful, mine desperate as time seems to stop.

"I'm sorry, Guinevere," I say softly, my voice shaky and pleading as I reach out with the hand that isn't bleeding. She hesitates for a fraction of a second, a tiny blink of time that feels like an eternity of pain, then takes my hand. I start breathing again. I lift our joined hands and kiss hers. "I'm sorry… so sorry… please…" I mutter, kissing her hand over and over, each fingertip, each knuckle. "I'm just so… _frustrated_. I feel like I'm dying inside and I don't know how to stop it."

"I know, Arthur," she whispers. "And I know you weren't yelling at me. You just startled me, that's all. I'm all right, I promise."

"Sorry," I say. I can't say it enough. I feel two inches high.

"I can't do it, Guinevere. I just can't figure it out. Just… leave me to my misery. I'm sorry for everything. You have no idea how sorry I am to have dragged you into this."

"I don't regret anything," she says. "And I'm not leaving."

She amazes me. She scares me a little bit, too. Why is she insisting on staying when I'm clearly not going to figure my way out of this?

"You're bleeding," she says, reaching for a napkin and pressing it to the cut on the inside of my middle finger. "And there's water everywhere. You've ruined your fish."

"I was done. Not very hungry. Sorry. But thank you for bringing me dinner," I say.

"Let's get you cleaned up and then we'll clean this up," she says.

How in the world is she managing to hold it together? I'm a complete wreck and she's managed to keep her head.

As she leads me to the bathroom, raising her eyebrow at my mobile sitting on the nightstand, I decide that she is stronger than I am.

Much stronger.

I shouldn't be surprised. She hasn't had everything given to her. She has had to work for her success. She's buried her entire family and has been able to continue on and thrive.

I'm just a spoiled rich kid with a cut finger and a broken glass.

She cleans my cut and puts a bandage on it, kissing it once she's done. Then she sits me back on the couch and cleans up my temper tantrum while I watch, putting her shoes back on first so she doesn't step on any glass.

Mess gone, carpet vacuumed, she rejoins me on the couch. "Tell me about these wonderful things that happened as a result of you trusting yourself," she says.

"You don't want to know," I say.

"I wasn't asking," she says. "Please tell me."

xXx

She listens patiently while I tell her the two stories, asking questions, trying to understand the way my seven- and nine-year-old brain was working then. I also tell her some of my later years, of the poor choices I made as a teenager and young adult, which led her to asking about my first time.

"I told you about mine," she says, smiling a little. It's getting very late now, and each chime of the clock makes us pause.

She's also moved onto my lap, cuddled against me. I hold onto her like my life depended on her.

It feels like it does.

"Technically, you told me _who_ your first was. You didn't tell me _about_ it. And I'd rather not know that anyway," I say.

She chuckles. "Very well. _Who_ was it, then?"

"Sophia Dunwoody. I had just turned 17. It was my birthday present," I snort.

"Was she at school with you?" she asks.

"Yeah. Her father was an MP. We had been going out for a few months. I had been pressuring her, obviously."

She nods, but doesn't say anything.

"Then two weeks later I broke up with her because she was getting 'too clingy,' in my immature opinion."

"That… doesn't surprise me. I mean, now that I know some details of your past and who you were then," she says.

"I was a complete tosser," I say. "But that's when it started. I craved the affection, the pleasure, but I didn't want to have to deal with the emotions that _should_ have driven them."

"You didn't know _how_ to deal with them," she says. "You were never taught."

I'm surprised. "You understand," I breathe, amazed.

"I do," she says. "And _you_ understand that you're not that person anymore."

This is not a question. I nod. "I do," I repeat.

I glance up at the clock for the thousandth time. It's nearly midnight.

This is bad.

She looks, too, and I see her nervously bite her lip. "Arthur…"

"Guinevere, you have to go," I cut her off, pleading again.

"No."

"Guinevere, _please,_ just… leave me…" I'm literally begging now, millimeters from tears. I can feel their burning pressure behind my eyes. I haven't cried since I was a boy. I gently remove her from my lap and she climbs right back on.

"No, Arthur, I won't. I am not going anywhere," she says stubbornly.

"You don't understand…" I stop talking because my voice has broken and the tears slip out.

"No, _you_ don't understand, Arthur." She glances at the clock. It's 11:57. My penis has three minutes to live. So does my heart. She grabs my face and forces me to meet her gaze. "I don't care what happens at midnight. I'll still be _your_ Guinevere. You are in my heart and no one else will ever take up residence there. No one, do you hear me?" Fat tears start rolling down her cheeks as she looks intently into my face.

I hear her. And it just shatters me further. I can't give her what she wants or what she deserves. _Any chance you might have had for happiness in love? Gone. You will die miserable and alone_. I tear my eyes from her gaze.

"Arthur," she whispers, ducking her head to look into my downcast eyes. "Just hold me. Just… kiss me. Please."

She's so close. Her scent alone is like a drug, and I am a hopeless junkie for it. My head moves on its own and I meet her lips, sliding slightly on them as my tears mingle with hers, making our kiss salty and slippery. But sweet. Oh, the sweetness…

I can't bear it. I tear my lips away just as that blasted grandfather clock starts to chime.

"Arthur, I…" she whispers, barely audible. Suddenly she grabs my hand and holds it against her heart, tight.

I look into those eyes of hers, those beautiful eyes, silently asking for something yet patiently waiting.

If I don't say it now, I'll regret it forever.

I step up to the precipice. I leap.

"I love you, Guinevere. With all my heart. I'm so sorry, but I love you and you deserve better than what I'll be able to give you now." I whisper the admission, my forehead leaning against hers, my eyes pinched shut, and brace myself for… I don't know.

The clock stops chiming.


	62. Day 61

I've never had a Day 61.

Am I expecting my cock to fall off? My body to shut down, close itself off? If I look at my sweet, beautiful Guinevere, will I feel physically ill?

Idly, thoughts of suicide play through my head. I know in my bones I can't live like this, knowing that she loves me and I am unable to love her back. How would I do it? Pills, like poor Morgause? Father's hunting rifle? Hang myself? Hurl myself from a bridge somewhere like my mother?

No. I know what my mother's suicide did to my father. And, by extension, me. I couldn't do that to Guinevere.

Shit.

"Arthur," Guinevere whispers, leaning back slightly and trailing her finger along my cheek. My eyes are still closed. I do not feel revulsion at her touch. I open my eyes. "I love you, too. I _still_ love you." She smiles a wistful, watery smile. "One more," she whispers, leaning down and kissing me again, just once, chastely.

What the bloody…? My heart beats faster, and I feel warm all over. I clutch her waist and immediately pull her closer to me, putting everything I have into this kiss, pouring myself into her.

Maybe the timing is off. What time was it when I met Guinevere at the market? I don't even know anymore. Late morning? Early afternoon?

I keep kissing her, though, because I have to. I cling to her. I probably should be embarrassed at my ridiculous display of desperation, but I'm not. I don't care at all.

She gently pulls away from me and strokes my cheek again. "Open your eyes, Arthur." She's still whispering.

Her wish is my command, and I open my eyes. How did I ever think of her as merely cute? She is the sunrise over the ocean, a rose in full bloom.

"How do you feel?" she asks, her fingers toying with the hair at the nape of my neck now.

"I feel like…" I blink, thinking. Feeling. Assessing my current state. Her fingers in my hair are very distracting, though.

_Her fingers in my hair are very distracting._

"I feel like… the Grinch at the end of _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ ," I say, smiling crookedly and uncertainly at her. "But I'm very confused. I'm supposed to become a lonely, bitter hermit now…"

"Well, if your heart has just grown three sizes, how _can_ you become a lonely, bitter hermit?" she asks, angling her head at me in that way that she has. Then she smiles, lacing her fingers together behind my neck. "Do you still love me?"

Do I? _Can_ I? My eyes dart around the room, as if I'm looking for answers on the walls. Then I look back at her smiling face. "Yes… yes, I do. But…" I stop. That is a very knowing smile. "Wait. What do you know?"

She sighs, and her smile falls, her eyes closing. "I'm sorry. I couldn't tell you or it wouldn't work."

"What?"

"I… had a chat with your sister after you told me about your curse," she admits.

"You _what?_ " I yell, but I'm not angry. I'm shocked.

She opens her eyes. "I spoke with her. Spent a couple of hours at her cottage."

"Really?"

"She isn't as frightening as you make her out to be, Arthur. She… she wants you to be a better person. She just went about it in a really, _really_ shitty way."

"Tell me," I say, leaning back on the couch, wrapping her in my arms, still reeling. I need to know. I need to know if I'm truly free now, free to live the rest of my days with this amazing woman.

"It was last Thursday. Remember when I was at the dentist?"

I nod. "You weren't at the dentist?" I don't really care that she lied, but it does surprise me.

"No, I _was_ at the dentist. But then I was driving home, and going past the Darkling Wood, and, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time…"

_I remember you told me she lived in the Darkling Wood. You said you called her, so she has a phone. I figured she had to have a record somewhere, and I was surprised at how easy it was to find her, even with just my mobile. It was a bit of a hike into the woods, but I didn't mind too much. It was a bright, sunny day, and the forest is actually quite beautiful._

_Her cottage was not what I expected. It was actually quite humble, quite charming. I was expecting gargoyles and maybe a moat. A dragon on a chain outside. Something. It was overwhelmingly… ordinary._

_I stepped up and lifted my hand to knock, and the door opened before my hand hit._

_"Right on time," Morgana said._

_"Um…" I replied, stupidly. Of course she knew I was coming._

_"Please, come in." She stepped back and allowed me to enter. Her cottage was small, but cozy. She walked through with an air of nobility, all alabaster skin and ebony hair, stunningly beautiful, an albino python draped over her shoulders like a thick scarf about six feet long._

_"That's… that's a beautiful snake," I said, recovering my sense enough to try to be polite, even friendly._

_"His name is Wolfe," she told me, stroking his head with her finger._

_"Wolfe?" I repeated, puzzled._

_"His previous form was that of a wolf. That is what he told me, and so that is what I call him," Morgana explained. "He is my familiar." She looked lovingly down at the python, blowing a little air-kiss to him as he stared back at her. "Wolfe, say hello to Guinevere."_

_I never told her my name. Of course, she didn't need to be told._

_The snake lifted his head and extended towards me a bit. I've never been afraid of snakes, and I know pythons are not venomous. So I carefully raised my hand, my movements slow and deliberate, to meet his curious face._

_"Hello," I said, and then I stroked his head with my finger just as I'd seen Morgana do. He pressed his head up against the pressure of my finger, flicking his forked tongue out a few times to catch my scent. He was warm and scaly and dry. I'd never felt anything like it, and somewhere in the back of my mind I was making a mental catalog of my boots and purses, making sure I had no snakeskin._

_"He likes you," Morgana said. Wolfe retracted back and coiled around her wrist. "He says you are truly a good person. You are regal and brave and true. You are a rare find."_

_"Thank you," I said quietly, stunned._

_"Please, sit. I know what you have come to ask," Morgana said, waving her free arm at an upholstered chair._

_I sat where I was bid._

_"My brother does not deserve you," she said, with no preamble whatsoever, looking me straight in the eyes, her green irises penetrating into my soul. That's how it felt, anyway._

_"I –"_

_"And yet he needs you," she cut me off, holding her hand up as if to say "let me finish."_

_She continued. "My brother needs you, just as you need him. You are two halves of one whole."_

_"Then please, my lady, will you tell me how we can lift his curse?" I asked, my voice a whisper._

_She angled her head at me. I think she was actually a little surprised and didn't know how to process that emotion._

_"Your little… weekend of debauchery… was actually a good thing for him," Morgana said, seeming to ignore my question for the moment._

_"What? You… saw that?" I asked, my voice very small._

_"Not exactly." She looked to the side, to an array of crystals in stands on a table covered in blood-red velvet. "The crystals show me things, but I do not have to look," she said. "It… was important, so it was shown to me. I only looked just enough to get the general idea," she adds, raising an eyebrow slightly._

_"Oh," I said, blushing and looking down._

_"Trust me, I do not want to see my_ brother _doing something like that. Just… ugh. Ew. No," she said then, suddenly sounding very much like a normal young woman. I looked up and she was making such a face that I laughed before I could stop myself. Then she smiled and it transformed her icy demeanor completely, and she was no longer the stark, unapproachable beauty, but a lovely young woman. It was remarkable._

_"It was good because he forgot about the curse. He let himself give in to his true feelings for you. He trusted you and trusted himself, and followed the correct instincts. For once."_

_And I understood then. She was answering my question in that cryptic way that magic folk have got down to an art. I nodded, looking her in the eye._

_"You understand," she whispered._

_"I do," I said._

_"Tea?" she asked then, quite abruptly. I almost jumped._

_"Um, that would be lovely," I said. "Oh, but I just had a filling repaired…" I had kind of forgotten about it. Strange._

_"Oh, I can fix that," she said. Her eyes flashed gold for a moment, and suddenly I could feel the right side of my mouth again. No pain, either._

_"Thanks," I said, blinking in surprise, touching my cheek with my hand._

_"It'll wear off in an hour or two, so the pain may return. Sorry," she apologized. Then she disappeared into the kitchen._

_She returned in a ridiculously short amount of time with a tray. "It's quite easy to heat a kettle when you don't need to use a stove," she said with a smirk, setting the tray down on a small coffee table. "Come," she said, sitting on the couch now, patting the seat beside her._

_I wondered what switch I had inadvertently flipped inside of her that suddenly made us chums, but I said nothing. I moved to the couch and she poured the hot water over the tea ball in my cup._

_"It's just plain black tea," she said, smirking again. "No bella donna or nightshade or anything, I promise."_

_"I never thought…"_

_"Joke. I do have a sense of humor," she said, handing me the cup and saucer._

_"Thank you," I said. I let my tea steep to my liking and removed the ball to the saucer. She had some scones on a plate, and I reached for one. Suddenly, I felt the need to test her sense of humor. "Eye of newt?" I ask, holding the scone aloft. There were little round things inside, after all._

_"Toe of frog, actually. Adds crunch," she answered with a smile, and we both laughed._

"Wait, wait," I had to interrupt, stopping her. "You were making _jokes_ with my sister the witch?"

"See, that may be the problem, Arthur. You have spent your life thinking of her as 'Morgana the Witch.' She's also a person. Maybe if you treated her like one, she'd respond better."

I slump back, struck by her words. She really is too smart for me. "Don't you get tired of always being right?" I finally ask.

"No, actually, I quite enjoy it," she answers, leaning up to kiss me sweetly. "May I continue?"

"Of course," I say, squeezing her.

"So…"

_"Actually, they're blueberry," she said. "I grow them in back."_

_"Oh, I would love a garden one day," I said, taking a bite of the scone. It was very good._

_We chatted at length about plants and cooking, and she even took me out back and showed me her gardens. She gave me some strawberries and promised that if I came back later in the summer she'd have all kinds of produce to share, saying that she always ends up with too much._

_I spent over an hour at her cottage, and had a better time than I expected. I remember you saying that Morgana wasn't a nice person. I didn't find this to be the case at all._

_As I was readying to leave, she stopped me, momentarily back in Witch Mode._

_"Guinevere," she said, and something in her tone made me pay attention. "Please understand that while my actions were rash and, yes, severe, I can admit that now, I had only the best intentions. It wasn't just Morgause. He has used many women as his playthings. He does have a good heart, but it was misplaced."_

_"Yes, it was residing a bit lower than it should have been, from what I understand," I said, raising an eyebrow._

_She laughed again. "Indeed. One more thing, though, and this is important," she said, turning serious once more. "You must not tell Arthur what you have learned here."_

_"No?"_

_"No. You must guide him, but nothing more. Do not even tell him we spoke. Not until after the curse is broken."_

_She seemed fairly confident that it would be broken, so I just nodded. "I understand." I felt awful about having to keep this from you, but I didn't see any other way._

_"If you simply show him where the door is, he will not find the way out on his own. Help him trust his heart. It is a good heart," she said, almost sadly. "He just doesn't realize it. Take his hand and do not let go, Gwen."_

_"Yes, my lady. I will," I promised her._

_"Now go," she said, guiding me to the door._

_"Morgana?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"Thank you." At that point, Wolfe made his way across the short distance between us to nuzzle my hand, and I stroked his head, petting some of the length of his body. "It was nice meeting you, Wolfe," I told the snake. "Look after your mistress." He nudged my hand again once, and retreated back to Morgana's shoulder._

_I turned to leave, and her voice stopped me again. "Gwen?"_

_"Hmm?"_

_"In a previous life, long ago, you and I were good friends."_

_I smiled. "I'd like it if we could be friends in this life, Morgana."_

_"I'd like that, too," she said, smiling that warm smile again._

But that's Guinevere. That's why I love her so. Anyone who spends five minutes with her cannot help but be charmed by her.

Is she truly mine?

"I'm sorry, Arthur," she says, turning to look up at me.

"What for?" I ask. I don't understand why she's apologizing.

"Well, because I had every intention of telling you I spoke with her," she tells me, twining her fingers with mine. "But then she told me I couldn't or it wouldn't work. And I'm not going to disobey her _._ Not when it meant the difference between getting you free and keeping you trapped."

"I understand, Love," I say. "It must have been very hard for you."

"It was," she sighs, settling back again and leaning her head against my shoulder. "When that bloody clock started chiming, I nearly had a heart attack. I _almost_ said it first, but then I realized that would be cheating and it would have buggered everything up."

"So, all the things you've been doing these past five days, telling me not to worry, to be positive… you were just trying to get me to tell you that I love you?"

She nods. "Well, not really trying to _get_ you to say the words so much as trying to help you trust yourself and me enough so you'd be _able_ to speak them," she clarifies. "And I knew how you felt. I've known for a while now," she adds quietly.

"Since when?" I am curious.

"Since… Sefa's birthday. When you took care of me while I was a little drunk." She lifts her head to look at me again.

Wow. "Day 39. That was before I knew it myself. Well, before I could admit it to myself."

"When was that?" she asks, kissing my neck once before dropping her head back against my chest again.

"When you had your appendix out. That first night, when I went home. I was so bloody _worried_ about you, almost panicky, I think. It was taking too long. That night, I realized that I don't ever want to lose you."

"Oh," she breathes, turning suddenly to wrap her arms around me. She squeezes tightly. "You didn't."

"I know. And to be honest, this was scarier than that. I thought I was going to die. On the inside. And then you'd be left…" I return her hug, holding her as tight as I dare. "I love you so much, Guinevere." It's so easy to say now.

"I love you, too, Arthur. But it was very frustrating being around you these past few days," she says, loosening her hold on me. I do the same. "The hardest part was trying to stay positive. To try to make you concentrate on the positive things so you would say the bloody words without me giving it away," she chuckles.

"I'm a terrible student," I say, dropping my head against hers.

"You weren't that bad," she assures me.

"I was a complete idiot. The answer was so simple and I couldn't let myself see it."

"I know," she says. "Frustrating, like I said. But I understood, really, I did. You probably felt so trapped, so frightened, that your brain just kind of locked up on you."

"I felt like I was trapped inside an hourglass, getting slowly buried as the sands flowed to the bottom," I say.

"Oh, goodness," she whispers, kissing me softly.

We sit quietly for a few minutes, still awe-struck by what has just happened. I can't believe I'm actually free of this curse.

"I can't help but wonder," I say, twirling one of her curls around my finger, "why Morgana helped you and not me."

"Arthur," she looks up at me. "When you called her, what did you ask her? Specifically."

"I… I asked her to lift the curse. Asked if she would take it away."

"Ah," Gwen says, raising her eyebrows, and understanding dawns on me, hitting me like a lightning bolt in the forehead.

If there ever was a time for a "facepalm," this is it. I _am_ an idiot.

"I asked _her_ to lift the curse. Asked if _she_ would take it away," I repeat, softer, slower.

"Exactly. You were expecting someone else to do it for you," Gwen says, admonishing gently, when in fact I deserve to be beaten about with a mace.

"And _you_ asked how _we_ could lift the curse," I say, dropping my head against hers again. I need her closeness like I need air right now.

She _is_ my air right now.

She nodded. "Old habits die hard, my love," she whispers.

"I know," I admit. "I need to learn to trust others _and_ myself as well as stop expecting everything to be handed to me just because I want it."

"You're farther along than you think," she tells me, and I immediately feel better. "But you've been trapped in this curse so long that it's clouded your ability to think clearly in some areas, I think."

"Probably," I say. "But I know you'll keep me in line," I add, nuzzling her hair, kissing it, inhaling its scent.

"You better believe it," she tells me, grinning. "You really don't need someone telling you what to do, Arthur. I hope you know that," she says, trailing her fingertips along my cheek. "You may think you do right now, but you don't." Then she leans up and kisses me, pressing against me, her fingers running through my hair.

"Morgana's right… I don't deserve you," I gasp. She's nibbling my ear now, and I'm losing my mind.

"Yes, you do. Now shut it," she says, sliding her hand down my chest, towards… I hope…

Oh, yes, indeed.

"Take me to bed, Arthur," she whispers in my ear.

Right now, on this day, Day 61, I would do absolutely anything for her. I would swim to France. I would swim to America. I would build her a house with my bare hands and put in a garden that would put the Albion Botanical Gardens to shame. I would wrestle a rabid wilddeoren wearing only my pants.

But right now she wants me to take her to bed. I can do that.

xXx

I set her gently on my bed, having carried her in here, my lips never leaving her skin. I pull my t-shirt off and join her, crawling over her body, kissing my way up as I go.

"Your clothes are in the way," I murmur, carefully tugging at her shirt with my teeth.

She giggles and sits up, yanking her shirt off just as hastily as I had done mine.

"Mmm, almost," I say, reaching around her back to unhook her bra.

We are interrupted by my mobile ringing, which is odd because I had set my phone to Vibrate. I sigh and lean over. Only one person could be calling me not only at nearly one a.m. but also specifically _now._ I swipe my finger across the screen and put the phone to my ear.

"Congratulations, little brother."

"Thanks, I think. Hello, Morgana. Your timing is impeccable, by the way," I say.

"Oh, am I _interrupting_ something?" she asks. She knows exactly what she's interrupting.

"I'm not even going to answer that question," I say. Guinevere has switched on the small bedside lamp and is watching me with interest from her place on the bed. Waiting patiently. I reach for her hand.

"I'll be brief. I just wanted to tell you that I am happy for you, despite what you might think."

"Thank you," I say. I must admit, I _am_ surprised.

"I knew you would get there in the end," she says. Surprise number two. "Well, I should say I knew _Gwen_ would help guide you there," she adds cheekily. I know she's smirking on the other end of the phone.

"I'm glad that the two of you had so much faith in me. I sure as hell didn't," I sigh, ignoring her little jibe. "So, that was all I had to do? Just say 'I love you' and the curse would vanish?"

"No, you had to say it and _mean_ it, silly. _Really_ mean it. You had to be ready to say the words. To think about _her_ needs ahead of your own. And the letters helped, too."

"Oh," I say, dumbly.

"You will finish those," she says. Orders. It is not a request.

"Of course I will. I wasn't going to abandon them just because I broke your curse; they're too important. I'm not going to do it right now, though, obviously." I glance longingly over at Guinevere. She's still holding my hand, waiting patiently while I talk with my sister.

"Of course not now," she chuckles. "You have more important things waiting for you now."

"Oh, well, thank you for giving me permission," I say snidely, smirking.

To my surprise, she laughs. A real laugh, without derision or contempt. I'm sure I must have heard genuine laughter from her at some point during our lives, but I'd be hard-pressed to come up with when it was.

"Anytime," she chuckles. "But one last thing," she adds, turning serious again.

"What's that?"

"Hurt Guinevere and your next curse will be _much_ worse. I'm talking boils and rashes in indelicate places. Chronic halitosis. Hair loss. You know: _good_ stuff."

"Well, there won't be a need for any of that, but I promise you, if I hurt Guinevere, I'll come and _ask_ for such a punishment," I say, looking over at her and stroking her hand with my thumb.

"Correct answer," she says.

"Good night, Morgana. You might not believe me when I say this, but thank you."

"You're welcome. And, for what it's worth, I do know that my sentence was harsh."

"I mostly deserved it."

"Yes. Good night. Love to Gwen."

Then the line goes dead.

"Always has to get the last word," I chuckle, inspecting my phone. It is, indeed, still set to Vibrate. I shake my head a little and plug in my phone, noticing for the first time that there are four missed calls from Guinevere. "Sorry," I say.

"It's all right. I kind of expected her to call, actually."

"No, sorry for not answering my phone and not calling you back. It was cowardly." I slide back over to where she's been waiting.

"It's forgotten." She smiles at me.

"Morgana sends her love," I say, before I forget.

"That's nice," she answers. "Now come here." She slides her hands up my chest.

"Oh, gladly," I say. "Now, where was I?"

"Right here," she whispers, pulling my hands around behind her back.

"Mmm, how could I forget?" I mutter, nuzzling her nose with mine as I unhook her bra. She slides her arms out and I toss it with the discarded shirts.

I kiss her, my tongue sliding against hers, as I lay her back on the bed, shuffling myself to the side of her. My hand finds her breast automatically, my fingers caressing, flexing into her soft skin.

I groan into her mouth, almost overcome with emotion and the realization that she's really mine. And I'm really hers. Really. Truly.

Forever.

"Oh," I gasp, releasing her lips. She's wearing those yoga things, easy to remove, and I slip my fingers under her waistband. She lifts her hips and I pull them down along with her panties, sliding them down over her legs, my eyes tracking every inch of skin that is revealed.

She looks like a golden-skinned goddess in the dim yellowish light of my lamp. "You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," I say softly, sliding my hands up her thighs.

She grants me a soft smile, sweet and seductive at once, her eyes dark and luminous. I start moving back up her body now, and as soon as she can reach, she reaches for my waistband.

"You're falling behind," she whispers, pulling.

I shuffle out of them with more urgency than grace, kicking my pajama bottoms and underpants off. I think they wind up half hanging off the bed, but I really don't care.

I slide up and kiss her, pressing my body against hers, careful not to crush her. But I want to feel her skin against mine again. I need to; I need to know that she's real; that she's not going to disappear beneath me.

"Oh, God, Guinevere, I love you," I whisper, my lips on her neck, kissing, licking, biting. Tasting. Savoring.

"I love you, too, Arthur," she whispers back, her hands on my shoulders, one delving into my still-unruly hair.

I spend some time kissing her favorite spot on her neck, enjoying the small gasps and mewls she makes. My hands rove, gliding over her skin, unable to decide where they want to land. They want to be everywhere.

I start kissing lower, working my way down her body. Her breasts are waiting for me, and when I close my lips over one nipple, she arches her back into me, moaning softly.

I need to worship her. I need to show her how much I love her.

She softly rubs my ear between her thumb and fingers as I kiss and suck at her breast, moving from one to the other. I groan again, my hand tightening on her waist.

I kiss lower, ghosting feather-light kisses on her stomach, softly kissing the three tiny scars as I encounter them, then continuing down to her hip, to her thigh.

I run my tongue lightly up her inner thigh, a firm muscle covered in velvet-soft skin, making my way back up between her legs.

I kiss her once before sliding my tongue between her folds. She is so wet already, and so sweet. I hold her hips with my hands as my tongue explores, flicking over the stiff bud in the front, sliding back to delve deep inside.

She writhes a little and cries out softly. I feel her hand in my hair again. I circle her nub with my tongue a few times and she gasps my name. I love hearing it.

I move my hand and slide two fingers inside, moving slowly in and out, joining my tongue in bringing her to ecstasy.

"Oh," she moans, louder now. I can feel her trembling slightly; I can feel her struggling to keep her hips still. Her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling it but not pulling me away. If anything, they're keeping me in place.

"Arth…" she gasps, "Oh!" Her thighs tighten around my head, trapping me while she's trying to stop me. I feel her climax on my fingers, her inner walls tightening rhythmically as her fingers relax in my hair.

Her thighs release my head, and I kiss both her inner thighs in turn, chuckling a little. She's so soft and warm and wonderful.

"Bloody hell," she gasps, still coming down.

I sit up, settling between her thighs, my legs under hers. I pull her up so she is straddling my lap.

"I need you close," I say, wrapping my arms around her back, sliding my hands up into her hair.

I just now realize that her hair is down. She must have undone it before she came over. For me.

My fingers spend a few moments just threading themselves through her hair while I just gaze at her, looking up slightly at her in her elevated position on my lap.

Guinevere caresses my cheek with her knuckles, and I turn my head to kiss them.

"Are you ready for me?" I ask, wanting to give her some time to recover.

"Yes," she says, reaching down between us.

"Oh…" I groan. Her hand feels so good. I hope I can last.

She strokes me softly a few times, then moves me into position. She kisses me as she sinks down over me, taking me all the way in until her hips are pressed firmly against mine.

I groan again, dropping my head back, eyes closed.

So good. Almost painfully so.

No. There's no pain in this act anymore. It's all pleasure, all bliss, pure love because it's with my Guinevere.

I kiss her lips slowly, tenderly, and slide my hands down her body to her hips as she begins to move over me, sliding up and down.

We can't maintain the kiss as the motions build, moving faster, intensifying. She grips my shoulders; my hands cling to her hips, her back, supporting her and holding her close.

She whimpers, she gasps; I groan.

So good. So perfect.

She's quivering in my arms again and before I know it, we lose ourselves completely in each other, climbing, climbing, until we both shatter into one another, crying out together in a tangle of limbs in the center of my bed.

Our bed.

Our breathing slows, our heartbeats gradually return to normal, but still we sit, face to face, entwined.

"My Guinevere," I sigh, my arms still tight around her slender body, my face in its favorite place, tucked into her neck.

"My Arthur," she answers softly, her fingers weaving through my hair.

I smile against her skin. Hearing her call me hers is nearly as good as hearing her tell me she loves me.

We reluctantly separate, and when Gwen returns from the loo, we cuddle in the bed, our bodies pressed tightly together.

"You know what this means, don't you?" she asks, nuzzling my chest.

"What?"

"It means I totally own your arse," she says, unable to hold back her giggles.

I look down at her. "My love, you've owned me since Day Two."

She leans up and kisses me softly, then puts her head back down, tucking it under my chin. "Oh, Arthur," she sighs shakily, her fingers caressing my chest. She sniffles once, and I realize she's crying.

"Why the tears, my love?" I ask, tilting her head up again with my finger. I reach up and gently wipe her cheek with my thumb.

"It's just… everyone I've ever loved has been taken from me. My mother, my father, my brother… I was really starting to get scared as the clock inched toward midnight. Then it started chiming, and I think my heart stopped beating."

"I think mine did, too," I say, wiping away more tears.

"When you finally said it… I… it was like I'd come to life again…" she continues, a faraway look in her eyes as she remembers. "These are happy tears, actually," she says, returning to the present. She laughs a wet little chuckle. "I'm just… so happy that I don't have to add you to that list."

"Me, too," I say quietly. That thought had crossed my mind on more than one occasion. "I promise you, Guinevere, I am not going anywhere."

"Thank you, Arthur," she says.

"You couldn't get rid of me if you tried," I say, smiling now. She snorts a watery kind of laugh. I reach for a tissue and gently wipe her face.

She smiles at me and it feels like the sun rising in my heart.

"There's my smile," I say, kissing her nose.

xXx

My arms are empty. Where's Guinevere? I think I hear some faint noises from the side of the bed, so I peek one eye open. Ah, she's texting.

"Texting Sefa?" I ask. "What time is it?"

"Nearly seven. I woke up because I had to pee, and I remembered that I told Sefa I'd let her know how we were. I'm also telling her I won't be in today."

"Good. Hand me my mobile?" I ask, flopping my hand over. She smiles and places my phone in my palm. I send a text to Father that I won't be in today or tomorrow. May as well take the rest of the week.

"Shit, Leon," I mutter. I send him a quick text as well.

_Everything fantastic. Not going to be in the rest of the week. Explain soon. Sorry for being kind of a wank lately._

Maybe we'll tell them next weekend. I think Percival has a bye week next week, so he'd be around. I'll talk to Guinevere about that later. I'm much too tired now.

I pass my mobile back to Guinevere, and she sets it beside hers, which she's plugged into my charger. "Yours is all charged," she says.

"I don't care," I chuckle. "I don't want to hear from anyone except you." I move slightly, turning. "Ugh. Toilet," I mutter, getting up and trudging to the bathroom.

When I return, she's back in bed. "Come back in here. We were up too late and I'm tired," she says, flipping the covers back for me.

"You don't have to convince me," I say, sliding back into bed and wrapping her in my arms once more. "I'm about ready to declare Naked Day 2.0 here."

She giggles against my chest. "We'll talk about it later," she mutters. "Go back to sleep."

xXx

I don't recall ever sleeping as well as I did last night. This morning, technically. It was around two when we went to sleep, and after the brief early morning bout of wakefulness, we slept until around 9:30.

Hungry, we reluctantly got up. I'm only wearing my Dragons trousers; Guinevere is wearing only one of my t-shirts.

"Arthur," she says, looking up from her brunch, "I was thinking. If… if you wanted some time to… be alone, to not be in a relationship for a bit… I would understand."

What? No. No, no, no. That's not what I want at all. "Is that what _you_ want?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

"No," she says. "I just thought that _you_ might wish to have some time on your own, without that curse hanging over your head, without needing your rules of conduct. Time to just, you know, _be_."

She looks so sad, but she's trying to keep a brave face. This is not what I want at all.

"I would wait for you," she adds, blinking a few times. Her eyes have gone a little glassy. She was blinking back tears.

I stand, walk around the table, and pull her chair out slightly so I can kneel at her feet. "That's not what I want at all, Guinevere," I say. "Even though I've been trapped in relationships for over two years, I've never been more alone than I was during that time." I take her hands in mine and continue. "Don't you see? With you I _can_ just be. I've never been able to really be myself with anyone before. I was able to forget about the curse with you, even when it was still there. In fact, I think I need you now more than ever." I scoot forward and drop my head into her lap. "I don't even know how to behave now that it's gone," I whisper. "Like I said last night: you own me. I am completely yours. I don't think I could turn away if I tried."

I feel her fingers in my hair, stroking, consoling, and I sigh. I close my eyes. This is what happiness feels like. Being here, cradled in the lap of the woman I love.

"Did I ever tell you about some of the dreams I had about you?"

"Is this something that's going to lead back to the bedroom?" she asks, smirking down at me. Her fingers are still soothing my scalp, stroking my hair.

"No, actually. Well, yeah, there were some of _those_ , but there are other ones I want to tell you about. Two, actually."

My mobile rings before I can tell her. I jump up, perplexed.

Guinevere hands it to me. "What's wrong?"

"I never put that ringtone in my phone," I say. Of course it's Merlin calling me.

"Bloody hell, mate, if I had known you were going to wait until the last possible second, I would have given you a little more help. You about gave me a heart attack!" Merlin exclaims immediately.

"Good morning to you, too. And don't even talk to me about having a heart attack. Guinevere thought she was going to have one, too. And _I_ thought I was going to die."

"Not that kind of curse, Arthur," he says.

I roll my eyes. "I know that. Doesn't mean that's not how it felt."

"Right. Anyway, I was just calling to say well done and generally interrupt your morning."

"Thank you. Mission accomplished on both fronts, then. Oh, and speaking of, what's with the ringtone? I feel like my mobile has been violated."

He laughs. "Mate, messing with technology is the easiest thing in the world for me." He pauses. "And now you have a contact photo for me as well."

"Great," I say. "Wait, you can do that from where you are?"

"It helps that I'm on the line with you. Even so, yes. Don't you like the song I chose? I can change it if you like…"

"No, it's fine, but _Pinball Wizard,_ honestly? _That's_ the best you could come up with? Do you even play pinball? Are there any pinball machines around anymore?"

He's still laughing, and now so is Guinevere.

"I like The Who. And it has _Wizard_ in the title. Maybe I'll change it next time I call. Something really good, like _Could It Be Magic_ by Barry Manilow."

" _Pinball Wizard_ is fine," I say. I do _not_ need Barry Manilow singing from my mobile. Ever.

"You know, Merlin, despite the fact that you are easily the strangest man I have ever met—"

"Thank you," he interjects.

"Thus cementing my opinion further, thank _you,_ but despite that, I do like you. You're a good bloke. Thank you for helping me, mate."

"You're welcome. I'm only sorry it took so long for our paths to cross. I knew they would, but the timetable was hidden from me."

"Thought you were all-powerful," I say.

"Not all-powerful. Just very powerful. The future is tricky and ever-changing. Free will is a bitch sometimes."

"I suppose that makes sense," I say, chuckling at him now.

"And nobody is _all_ -powerful," he adds, almost as an afterthought. "All right, I will let you get back to your breakfast or whatever you two are up to."

"Hey, we should all get together some time. You know, you and Freya and Guinevere and me. Have dinner or something."

"You know about Freya and me?" he asks. "Oh, wait, you did see us when you were leaving the hospital…"

"Mate, _everyone_ knows about you and Freya. You're both total shit at keeping it a secret."

"Really?"

"Wow, for a powerful wizard, you seem pretty surprised. Yeah. Everyone knows."

"Oh." He clears his throat uncomfortably. "Um, yeah, dinner sometime would be nice, then."

It's my turn to laugh at him now. "Isn't there someone you should be slicing into about now?" I ask.

"I still have ten minutes," he laughs. "Hey, did Gwen tell you about the note?"

"What note?"

"Ask her. I gotta go."

"All right. Thanks again, mate."

"You're very welcome, Arthur."

I set my mobile down. "I'm supposed to ask you about a note?"

"Oh, yes. Dr. Emrys – Merlin – gave me a note. He sent it with Dr. Gaius when I had my stitches out," she says. She goes to grab her purse and is digging a small piece of paper out of her wallet when she returns.

She hands it to me and I read the very tidy, very un-doctor-like handwriting.

_He needs you. Don't give up on him. –M.E._

"So it appears I'm not the only one to whom he was giving hints," I say.

"Um, yeah. My talk with Morgana gave me the answer we needed, but this," she says, taking the note back and waving it at me, "gave me the strength to see this through with you. It also gave me the courage to bully my way in here last night." I watch, curious, as she tucks it back into her wallet where it had been hidden.

"Why are you putting it back?" I ask. Surely she doesn't need it any more.

"Because I like it. It's… reassuring having it there. It's not every day a person gets a hand-written note of encouragement from their friendly neighborhood dragonlord," she says. "I know it can't compare with having him violate your mobile phone, but I'll take what I can get."

"Check your phone," I say, chuckling. "He's probably in there now."

She looks through her contacts. "Well, bugger…" She turns her screen so I can see it. There he is, right beneath Leon and above Mithian.

xXx

We spend the day together, mostly in my bedroom, mostly undressed. We had a decadent shower in which we got very dirty before we got very clean. And she let me wash her hair again.

I eventually break down and call Father. I tell him I must have eaten something that was off and will be back to work on Monday.

"What was it?" he asks.

I roll my eyes. "I had some tuna salad for lunch…" I glance at Guinevere while I talk, silently asking her if this is plausible. She nods encouragingly and gives me a thumbs-up.

"…that must have been sitting in my fridge for too long," I say. "Ate it for lunch on Tuesday." I was closeted in my office most of Tuesday, and I did eat lunch at my desk, so I think I'm good.

"Arthur, you should really keep a closer watch on the contents of your refrigerator," he chides. My eyes roll skyward again.

"I know, Father."

"I'm actually surprised that Guinevere doesn't keep a closer eye on those things than you do. She—"

"I have to go," I interrupt him. I'm done talking to him. "Like, _go,_ " I add, for good measure.

"Oh. Right. Goodbye. Take care. Is Guinev—"

"Good _bye,_ Father," I say. Then I hang up on him.

I look over at Gwen and she has her pillow over her face. Her whole body is shaking with laughter. I reach over and peel the pillow back.

"I'm glad you found that amusing," I say.

"'I have to go… Like, _go,_ '" she quotes, rolling on her side, laughing. "That was brilliant…"

I start laughing, too, unable to hold it in any longer, collapsing back down beside her and pulling her into my arms.

"Leon keeps texting me," I say once our laughter has stopped. "I was thinking we could have everyone over next weekend and I could spill my guts."

"Why not this weekend?" she asks.

"It's still too fresh. Plus I'm not sharing you with anyone this weekend. I hope you didn't have any plans," I smirk at her.

She smiles. "The only plans I had were to be with you."

"Good. So Percival has a week off next week, so he'll be around. And maybe we should have Merlin and Freya there as well. I think I might need his support. You know, to explain things?"

"I think that's an excellent idea," she says. "He can meet everyone, then, too. Since he's kind of your friend now, we should bring him into the circle."

"Absolutely," I agree. "I hope they won't be put off by the whole dragonlord thing." I pause, thinking. "No, they won't be. Why would they be?"

"Of course they won't be," she says, shoving me lightly.

"I know. My brain's a little scattered right now," I say, kissing her forehead.

"Understandable," she says. "We should ask them about it before they all make plans on us."

I roll over and pick up my phone. I send a group text to Leon, Percival, and Merlin.

_Dinner at my place next week Saturday? Everyone or no one! Check with SOs and let me know._

"Everyone or no one, Arthur?" Guinevere asks, reading over my shoulder.

"Well, if everyone can't make it, I can't tell my story, can I?" I ask. "I thought it was perfectly reasonable."

My phone buzzes in my hand almost immediately.

_M: We'll be there. Freya says she's met everyone already, so it seems I'm odd man out._

_A: Aren't you always? :)_

_M: Cabbage Head._

"Merlin and Freya are in," I say, smiling. I expected his reply to be first. Then my current stalker, Leon replies.

_L: If we're going to find out what the bloody hell is up your arse, then YES._

I laugh, and reply.

_A: Yes, that's the whole point of this dinner party._

"It'll be awhile before we hear from Percival, probably," I say, setting my phone aside.

"Mmm, in that case…" she says, climbing over me, lying right on top of me. She leans her head down and kisses me, her hands softly cupping my cheeks.

"Oh, I like the way you think," I moan, sliding my hands down to squeeze her backside.

xXx

"Stay here with me," I mutter, still clinging to her in post-coital bliss, my head on her chest, listening to her heartbeat. It _is_ Naked Day 2.0. Most definitely an upgrade.

"I'm not going anywhere, Arthur," she says gently, brushing my hair from my forehead. I roll us so she is lying on me again.

"I actually meant something more big-picture. Move in with me," I say.

She lifts her head from my chest and looks down at me, her lips forming a curious little half-smile.

"Please?" I say, furrowing my brow. "I mean, if you'd rather we live at your flat, I can definitely do that. I don't really care," I add.

She smiles at me. "Arthur, we can live here. Your place is at least twice as big as mine. Plus you have your own laundry facilities." Her smile turns into an impish grin now.

"You only love me for my washer and dryer," I tease.

"No," she says, stroking my cheek. "Your dishwasher is very nice, too."

I laugh, wrapping my arms around her and squeezing tightly. "Oh, I love you, Guinevere."

"I love you, Arthur," she answers, kissing my chest.

"I would sell this place in a second and live in your little flat if that was what you wanted, though," I say with a sigh.

She nuzzles my chest. "I know."

"Wherever you are," I murmur, kissing her hair.


	63. Day 62

"Arthur, you don't have to wake up, but I need to go to work," Guinevere's whispered voice drifts into my consciousness.

"No," I mumble, groping for her, eyes closed.

"Yes, Love, sorry. I promised a customer a piece would be done today, and it's not. I need to finish it," she says.

"'Kay," I say, slowly opening my eyes. Honestly, I admire her dedication to her craft. She kisses me and walks over to her bag, pulling out some clean clothes. How many days did she pack for, I wonder?

That point is about to become irrelevant in about five minutes anyway, so I don't bother asking. "Hey," I call, sitting up and leaning against the headboard.

"Hmm?" she asks.

"Since you're going to work, I'm going to start moving your things over here," I say.

"Today?" she asks, an amused look of surprise on her face.

"Yes," I say. "I need you here with me as soon as possible. I'll work on bringing your clothes… and the things from your bathroom… and… I don't know; what else do you want right away?"

She's chuckling at me now. I'm actually glad she's finding this amusing rather than getting irritated with me (which I wouldn't expect to happen anyway) or suggesting we wait.

"Clothes and toiletries are fine for now. We can work on figuring the rest out this weekend, since we will have duplicates," she says. "We can keep your bed." She grins at me.

"I was hoping you'd say that. Mine is bigger. Gives us more room to fool around," I say, waggling my eyebrows at her. "Perhaps we can donate the things we don't need to a shelter or charity or something," I say, watching her secure her hair for the day, braiding it without even looking in a mirror.

"That's a lovely idea," she says. "I'd like to go through your kitchen, obviously."

"Obviously," I nod, agreeing. "You are completely in charge of that."

"Thank you," she says.

"I'll make room for your things in here and in my bathroom as well. I've been overdue for a good clean-out, anyway," I say. "Oh, and keep that key. The one you got from Leon. It's yours now. I'll have a new spare made for him, just in case."

"Okay," she says.

"You know, like when we go to Bora Bora," I say, smiling.

"Oh, my God, that's right, I forgot! We get to go!" she exclaims. Then she jumps on the bed and bounces over to me, giving me a very nice kiss.

"Wow, if I'd known _that's_ how you were going to react…" I say, reaching for her. "Come here."

I pull her close and kiss her as long as I can, until she gently pulls away. "I have to go," she whispers.

"We'll look at that resort online tonight," I say, releasing her with a grin plastered on my face.

"Ooo, can't wait. And I'll get you a key when you come over. Come in through the shop," she tells me. Then she bends down, gives me one more kiss, and heads out.

Is this what "normal" feels like? If so, I could get used to this.

Oh, yeah. Definitely.

xXx

After a shower, a bite of breakfast, and a stop at Hunith's, I saunter into Guinevere's shop.

Hunith was so pleased. I marched in, a huge smile on my face, and announced, "I'm ready for those dozen red roses now." She told me that she's never seen me so happy, and I made sure to tell her that her son was partly responsible for my happiness. She was thrilled that we managed to "get my little problem sorted."

I also bought a small bunch of daisies for Sefa. Just because I'm so bleeding happy.

Sefa is in the front of the store when I enter, but I don't see Guinevere, so she must be in back.

"Sefa, darling, how are you?" I ask coming over to her and kissing her cheek. "These are for you." I offer her the daisies.

"For me?" she asks, grinning. Then she looks at me. "You're glowing, the same as Gwen."

"I am?" I look down. I don't know why I was expecting to see anything.

She laughs at my silliness, and says, "Thank you, they're lovely."

Guinevere emerges from the back. "I thought I heard your voice," she says, coming over and kissing me.

"For you, my love," I say, holding the large crystal vase full of roses out to her.

"Thank you," she says and kisses me again, longer. A customer comes in, so we separate. Ever mindful, Sefa steps forward to greet the customer. Gwen leads me back to her workbench area so we can talk.

"I just have this one key. Sefa has the spare. So…"

"I'll have a copy made when I get Leon's copy of my key," I say. "I think we should keep your flat for storage." I motion around the small back area of the shop, indicating the clutter around me.

"You think?" she asks. She looks around. "I guess… if I could put some of the things I don't use as frequently up there…"

"Yes. Then you'd have more room to work. You probably don't notice it much anymore because you're here all the time, but it's quite…"

"Cluttered," she sighs.

"A bit, yes. And besides, we still need to sort out what's going where, and it's also only the tenth, so you'd have to wait at least until the end of June before you'd need to be out anyway. We can afford to keep both places. You'll also have the security of not having some strange person potentially living above your place of business. _And_ —"

"Arthur," she interrupts me, laughing now. "Stop selling, I agree, for crying out loud!"

"Oh, okay. Good. Because I'm not sure what my next point was going to be, anyway."

"Silly," she says, laughing. "Okay, I need to get back to this," she points to a large, very cool bracelet on her bench, "and you need to start moving stuff." She holds out her keys, showing me a smaller one on the ring. "This one opens the storage area in the basement. I have suitcases down there that you can use for some of my clothes. Might be some boxes there, too. And there is also my laundry basket, of course."

"Got it," I say, taking the keys.

"You remember which one is for my flat?"

"Yes," I say, giving her a kiss. "Now get to work. I'll be back around lunch and we can eat together."

"Oh dear, food…" she says, frowning.

"We can worry about that later, Love," I say, kissing her one more time. "See you at lunchtime. I love you."

"I love you, too," she says. I notice that every time she says it, she smiles. I'm sure I do the same when I say it.

xXx

I spend the morning packing her clothes, trying to think about what I would pack from my place if the situation were reversed and I was moving here. I have a moment of brilliance and decide to call and rent a moving van for tomorrow. That way I only need to pack the things from her closet, and we can just move her wardrobe with the clothes inside tomorrow.

I did check her bag before I left. She packed enough clothes to get her through to Sunday, the optimistic little thing that she is, so I don't even need to worry about packing her some knickers or anything.

My mind boggles at the amount of creams and lotions in her bathroom. I knew there were quite a few in there, but I never really took notice of it. I also grab her female items, because I noticed she had a few tucked into her bag as well.

Probably a good weekend to move, then. We'll likely be so tired from the work that come bedtime we won't have enough energy for other activities.

I might have tried, though, were she able.

Yes, I would have tried; who am I kidding?

Come lunchtime I return to Guinevere's shop just in time to see her showing the bracelet to the customer that ordered it. I hang back and wait.

Sefa walks over. "Percival and I can make your dinner party next weekend," she tells me. "Sorry he didn't text back. I told him I'd be seeing you and would tell you."

"That's fine," I say. "And good, I'm glad. That means we can have the dinner. We were just waiting on you two."

"Sorry," she apologizes again.

"Not a problem at all," I say. "It was just important that _everyone_ be there. I don't want to have to tell this story more than once. And Leon and Percival at least deserve to hear it at the same time."

"This is about the black spot that was on your heart," she says. She's not asking. I nod. "It's gone now, by the way."

"I know," I say, smiling.

"I figured you did, but I believe you needed to hear it," she says, smiling at me.

"I understand," I say, nodding. It's nice to have the confirmation, actually.

"Arthur, um… is Merlin Emrys really coming?" she asks. She looks a little awe-struck.

"He is. We're… friends now, actually. He obviously knows what my problem was, but doesn't know the whole story. But he's mainly coming for moral support and to help me out if you lot start asking questions I can't answer."

"I've only met him once, a few years ago. He's very impressive," she says.

"He's actually very nice and quite friendly. Which is surprising, given his level of ability."

"It shows how great he truly is," she says. Guinevere is just finishing with her customer. They are both smiling and the woman takes a couple of business cards from the holder on the counter.

"Thank you," Gwen says, smiling broadly. When the woman leaves, she looks at me. "She's telling her friends."

"Excellent! I'm proud of you, Love," I say, giving her a hug. "And Sefa has just told me that she and Percival are in for the dinner next weekend."

"Yes, she told me already," she smiles over at Sefa.

"Of course she did. Ready to eat?" I ask.

"Yes. Should we go somewhere or just upstairs and see what we can use up out of my kitchen?"

"Up to you, my love," I say.

"Let's go somewhere," she says. "On the opposite side of town from your office, obviously."

"Obviously," I repeat, smiling. As far as my father knows, I have food poisoning or something. It wouldn't do to be spotted. I did text Leon this morning and filled him in, just so he would know what to say and what not to say about me to Father.

Guinevere and I choose a small café near the edge of town. I've been here once or twice. It's a nice place. Quiet. Near the university, so more students than professionals are there.

As we peruse the menu, the music playing over the sound system penetrates my consciousness. _50 Ways to Leave Your Lover_ by Paul Simon.

"I hate this song," I sigh.

Gwen tilts her head, listening. "Yes, I suppose you would, wouldn't you?" she smirks at me.

"I do like this guy, but not this song."

"Paul Simon is very good, yes, but… yeah. I don't think I'll ever think of this song the same way again," she smiles.

"Luckily I never got to 50," I say, frowning a little.

"Hey," she says softly, reaching for my hand. "It's over now."

I smile. "Yes, it is. Once I finish the letters," I say.

"Once you finish the letters," she nods.

The waitress takes our orders and we sit, just contemplating one another across the table.

"We should go back to Imperial Wok this weekend. Or tonight. I think Mei and Mrs. Liu were worried about us."

"Is that her name, Mrs. Liu?" I ask. She obviously had gotten the hostess' name at some point while I wasn't paying attention.

"Yes."

"We can go tonight, if you want," I say.

"Okay," she smiles.

I love that smile. I need to see that smile, make that smile happen at least once a day.

Our food arrives a short time later. Guinevere ordered a club sandwich with homemade crisps (I steal one; they're very good), and I got a shepherd's pie, which came in its own little crock.

"I never told you about my dreams," I say while we eat. "Merlin interrupted before I could tell you, and then I completely forgot."

"Mmm, yes. Tell."

"I will tonight, I think. At home. I don't really want to talk about it here," I say, looking around. The tables are a little closer together than I'd like, and my dreams are nobody's business but mine. And Guinevere's.

"Okay," she says. "You said there were two?"

"Actually, there are three, come to think of it. Had one Wednesday morning that, now that I think back to it, I was completely thick to not see what it was telling me," I say, shaking my head at myself.

"Oh dear," Gwen says. "Were these dreams… sent by anyone? Morgana, Merlin?"

"They claim not. Morgana said she had better things to do than put things inside my head. She said I had my own demons that took care of that quite effectively," I chuckle. I can chuckle at it now.

"Whoa, must have been some dream," she says.

"Um, yeah, that particular one was. But you'll have to wait until later for the details."

"Yes, I know. And I understand why. But trust me, I won't let you forget," she says.

"Good," I nod. I think a moment, my fork paused in mid-air. "You once told me that I can tell you anything. I want that. I mean, you already know more about me than anyone else does, but… now that I'm free of this curse, now that I _can_ live my life like a regular person, I've realized how important it is to me. I will not keep any secrets from you, Guinevere, I promise." I reach across for her hand.

"Yes, Arthur, I feel the same way," she says, squeezing my hand. "I've always felt I could tell you anything, and… even when I knew you weren't telling me everything, I always got the sense that you _would_ if you felt you could. That you _wanted_ to tell me."

"I did," I say simply.

"I know. Then you finally told me, and it all made sense."

"I'm so glad I told you. I wouldn't be sitting here with you right now if I hadn't."

"I'm glad, too," she says. "Very glad."

xXx

I spend the afternoon making room for her in my home, _our_ home. I empty the few boxes of her things first so I can put the items of mine that I plan to donate in them. I find a surprising amount. Shirts I'd forgotten I even had. A pair of jeans that I accidentally bought in the wrong size, got too lazy to return, and promptly forgot about. Shirts that I received as gifts from people (including one or two of the 13) but never really liked.

A lot of minor details have fallen to the wayside over the past two years. My brain had other things on which to concentrate its energy.

I honestly do feel ten pounds lighter. No. Sixty pounds lighter.

Guinevere sends me texts throughout the afternoon, always a welcome diversion. I think it's killing her that she's working while I'm pawing through her things. I promised her I wasn't trying on her clothes or anything. She laughed at that. So naturally I then slipped a bra on over my shirt (there was one in her bag), took a picture, and sent it to her.

She threatened to put it on Facebook. I told her that I didn't care if she did.

Because I don't care. Hers is the only opinion that matters outside of my own.

Now I'm waiting to see if she calls my bluff.

I check a few times, and see nothing. And I get no taunting texts from Leon, so either it was an empty threat or she's forgotten.

Finally, at 4:50, she sends me a text.

_Come collect me and take me to dinner? :)_

I can do that. I grab her emptied suitcases, throw them in the boot, and go collect my love. I figure we'll go to her flat after dinner, get more things, then come back to my place.

Our place.

Mrs. Liu is clearly pleased to see how happy Guinevere and I are. She even tells us she was worried about us. Unfortunately, Mei is not working, but Lin waits on us. She also seems quite relieved that our demeanors have changed dramatically since last time.

Mrs. Liu gives us our dumplings for free. In fact, she has Lin bring them to the table before we even get a chance to order them.

It was a good dinner.

We go to Gwen's flat after, bringing up the suitcases for another load. I had explained to her what I'd already brought and why, and that I've rented a van for tomorrow and Sunday, if we still need it Sunday.

While I'm telling her all this, she's going around her flat, collecting pictures from the walls.

I don't really have any pictures on my walls. Father won't let me have any photos of Mother, and I don't want any pictures of him. Morgana does not allow photos to be taken of her. Not that I probably would have any, anyway.

I have one of Leon, Percival, and myself from graduation. It's in my living room, on a side table. We each have a copy. Leon's is on his mantle. Percival's is at his mum's house, in her living room. I'm assuming he'll take it with him when the jousting season ends and he moves in with Sefa. If he doesn't, Leon and I will have to smack him around. Unless his mum really wants to keep it. Then we'd have to let her. Or make her a copy to have as well.

I stop talking, watching as Guinevere takes a family photo off a wall near her bookshelf. I never really took note of it, but it must be from when she was a little girl, since there are four happy people in the photo. I move closer, looking at the photo over her shoulder, touching her and watching as Gwen traces the faces of her loved ones, now gone, with her fingertips. Her father, smiling broadly, a stocky, powerfully-built man. Her mother, petite and lovely, with hair like Guinevere's, but shorter, barely skimming her shoulders. Guinevere bears a striking resemblance to her mother. Little Elyan, just a toddler, chubby and clearly laughing at something. And young Guinevere, about five, sitting attentively, smiling, a picture-perfect little girl with mahogany curls over her shoulders.

She looks remarkably like our dream daughter. Apart from the coloring, of course. The little girl in my dream was lighter, blue-eyed, because she has half of me in her. But the face, the smile… even the air of precociousness that little Gwen seems to be exuding. That's our daughter. The daughter in my dream.

"You look like your mother," I say, my hands sliding down her shoulders to her elbows, then snaking around her waist.

"Dad used to tell me that all the time. 'You look more like Mum every day,' he would say," she says, turning and smiling at me. "Elyan looked like Dad. Can't really tell in this photo." She reaches down and picks up one she had already collected and shows it to me. It's her brother in his fireman's dress uniform, his official photo from Firehouse One.

I look from adult Elyan's face back to her father's. They do look a lot alike. "Elyan has a thinner build, but yes, he looks a lot like your dad," I say.

"You look like your mum, you said?" she asks, picking up the pictures and carrying them to the suitcase. "Would you get me some towels from the bathroom closet, please? I want to cushion these so they don't break."

"Yes, from the few photos I've seen, I do look like her," I say, walking to the bathroom. "Oh, and let's not forget the few times my father has mentioned the resemblance after too many martinis," I add over my shoulder before I disappear into the bathroom. I pull the towel off the towel bar and grab the rest of them out of the linen cupboard. "Here we are. Can I grab anything else?" I ask, grinning at her.

She snorts. "My pillow. Yours are fine, but I like my own."

"Right. Everyone likes their own pillow."

She collects a few more things, including a piece of art that she tells me her mother painted.

"Do you have room for my bookcases?" she asks, pointing to the two large units filled with books.

"We will make room," I say. Truth be told, my condo is pretty sparse. I have a feeling that's about to change, and I like it. "Anything else large you'd like to bring?"

"My wardrobe, obviously. And…" she walks over to her recliner, running her hands over the top of it, "this. It was Dad's. He had _just_ purchased it the week before he died. I'd like to bring it."

"Sure," I say. It's a good-looking chair, and quite comfortable. Soft brown leather. "We can get rid of my blue one. It looks like hell," I say.

"Yes, it does," she agrees. I laugh.

xXx

When we get home, we putter around a while, discussing where things should go and what needs doing. She makes lists. I move furniture around. We even take the blue recliner downstairs to the curb with a sign on it that says _FREE_. It'll be gone by morning.

Before we know it, it's nearly 11. Guinevere is yawning and my neck is getting stiff. We decide to call it a night and go to bed. I smile as she yanks the pillowcase off of my extra pillow and puts it on hers. She's very deliberate about it, as if _this_ action is what makes it official: She's really living here now. With me.

In bed, I cuddle her in my arms, kissing her forehead. "Do you want to hear about my dreams or are you too tired?" I ask.

"Bedtime stories, please," she smiles up at me.

"Well, I think I'll go backwards, starting with the most recent. It… makes more sense to tell you about them this way, I think," I say.

"Okay. So the first one is the one you had at my flat on the morning of Day 60, you said?"

"Yes," I nod. I tell her about the dream, about the tropical locale, which I assumed to be my subconscious' interpretation of Bora Bora.

"We didn't look online!" Guinevere interjects. "We were going to look at that resort."

"We have plenty of time, Love. I really want to go over Christmas and your birthday."

"Okay. Sorry, keep going."

"In my dream, I kissed you, told you I loved you, and then I woke up," I say. "That's it."

She lifts her head and looks at me. " _Duh,_ " she says, smiling and shaking her head at me.

"I know, right? I mean, how thick was I? Honestly. Looking back, that's exactly how I feel: duh," I say, shaking my head at myself.

"So you gave yourself the answer and you couldn't even see it," she says.

"I have issues," I say, still chuckling.

"And we are working on getting those sorted," she counters, kissing me. "So what was the one before that?"

"This was the one that prompted me to call Morgana. It was a whopper," I say, launching into the dream about the cave, how all the other women were inside and she was outside.

"I can see why you would think Morgana would send you that one. It's very prophetic. The whole thing is a metaphor," she says.

"Oh, yeah, I knew right away what that one meant. I wasn't ready to deal with it, but I knew. I always knew that you were different from the others. This was telling me that you were my way out. My salvation, as it were."

"Um, wow, that's a pretty high standard to live up to," she says. "I didn't save you, Arthur."

"I think you did," I say. "I wouldn't have found my way out of this curse without you. You can't deny that."

She tries. She opens her mouth to argue the point, but closes it a moment later. "Well…" she says, frowning a little. She knows I'm right. She's just too humble to admit it. "It was _you_ who actually broke the curse. _Your_ feelings for me. Sure, I may have helped guide you there, but it was _your_ heart that led you to the door."

"I suppose that's true," I say, smiling down at her. "Share credit, then."

"Okay," she agrees, kissing my chest.

"Oh no, up here," I say, tilting her chin up as I lean down to kiss her. We kiss for a short while, distracted by each other's lips. My hands creep up inside the back of her tank top. I know for a fact that Guinevere is not Open for Business, as she so eloquently informed me earlier, so we just content ourselves with a bit of snogging.

"Mmm, one more," she says, smiling at me. I lean down to kiss her again. "No, one more dream to tell me," she giggles.

"Oh!" I exclaim, surprised. "Nevertheless…" I kiss her again anyway. "Minx," I tease her, nipping the end of her nose lightly.

"Tell me," she says.

"Um, well… I'm not sure if you're going to want to hear this one," I say. I've been thinking about this first dream all day. I don't know if Guinevere is going to want to know about her first child. I want to tell her; I want her to know everything I know.

"Why wouldn't I? Is it bad? Do I die?" she asks.

"God, no. It just… involves our future. Future family," I clarify. "Our first child is in it."

She gasps lightly. "Do you _want_ to tell me?" she asks.

"I do. I don't want to keep anything from you; you know this. But if you don't want to know this information, I can tell you about the dream without giving certain details away," I say. "It just depends on how much you want to know."

She thinks a moment. Closing her eyes, she whispers, "Tell me."

"Well…" I say, a little nervous about how to start this one. I'm not sure if it's just a dream or if it is a vision – a prophecy, even – but I'm nervous about mentioning the 'M' word.

Clearly I want to marry her, but we've never discussed it, for obvious reasons.

"Um, in this dream, we were married," I blurt. Just put it right on the table. "It was some time in the future, but I'm not sure when," I add, my voice softer now.

I can't see her face, but I can tell she is smiling against my chest. I relax.

I tell her. I tell her about our beautiful daughter, how smart and wonderful she is, how she looks just like young Guinevere in the picture, except with my eyes and lighter skin. I tell her about Sefa, how she was so pregnant that she looked like she had a beach ball under her dress. I tell her that she was newly pregnant in the dream as well.

"Oh, my God," she whispers. "When did you have this dream?" She looks a little spooked, but is handling the news pretty well.

"Day 11," I say.

"You had a dream about our future family on Day _Eleven_?" she gasps, shocked.

"I know. It was pretty heavy. I was freaked out. I told you I loved you in that dream, on Day bloody 11," I agree. "Oh, blimey, I just remembered: I woke up with a chubby after it, too. Like, a proper one, not just morning wood," I blurt.

She laughs at this. "Wow, you had it _bad,_ Arthur. Getting aroused by a dream about a normal, happy family life. That's… really… sweet, come to think of it."

"It was the first time I'd felt any _real_ stirrings… down there… in a long time. I think it was the first sign for me. That I really, _really_ wanted – no, _needed_ – to lift this curse. I wanted to be able to have that kind of life so much that it manifested itself physically… with him," I say, nodding downwards.

"You've given this a lot of thought," she says.

"Yes, I've had 51 days to ponder it," I say.

"Well, I, for one, am happy to learn that I wasn't the only one who fell hard and fast," she says, snuggling against me. I give her a gentle squeeze. I can tell she's getting tired. "I just have one more question, then we can go to sleep."

I reach over and flip the lamp off. "What's that?"

"What was our daughter's name?"

I think. "You know, I don't think it was in my dream. I'm kind of happy about that, actually. Gives us _some_ mystery. _Something_ we can feel we have control over," I say, turning on my side. She stays facing me for the moment.

"I agree. If her name had been given in the dream, we would have felt bound to use it when she is actually born," she says. "I'm glad you don't know when it happened, too."

"I agree."

Guinevere yawns then, and leans up to kiss me. "Good night, Arthur. I love you." She kisses me again.

"Good night, Guinevere. I love you, too. More than I can possibly express."

"Me, too." She gives me one more kiss, then turns over, her back to me so I can spoon up behind her.

I get to sleep like this every night, for the rest of my life.

I still can't believe it.

How did my fortune turn around so completely?

My Guinevere, that's how.

My life is going to be good from here on in.

Better than good.

 _Much_ better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The days will no longer be consecutive going forward.


	64. Day 70

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dinner Party

Most of Guinevere's things are here now. What she wants here, anyway. The things we decided to donate are already gone as well, and a lot of the clutter from Guinevere's shop has been moved upstairs. It's been a busy week, but I have to admit, my place looks a thousand times better since she's put her touch on it. I love it. I love her. I love having her here all the time. With me.

Tonight is the dinner party. I promised to tell everyone about my curse, and I feel strangely… excited about it. It's going to feel good to finally get all that shit out, all that garbage I've been holding in for two years too long.

It's midmorning, and I've just finished vacuuming, so I saunter to the kitchen. Guinevere is lining up Cornish hens like little headless soldiers in metal trays.

"Well, there's a sight I never thought I'd see in my kitchen," I say, chuckling.

" _My_ kitchen," she corrects, giggling and leaning back into me when I wrap my arms around her waist.

"Yes, Love, _your_ kitchen," I say, kissing her cheek. "Are you almost at a good stopping point?" I ask.

"Yes, I just need to wash my hands and then cover these ladies with some plastic," she answers, waggling her chickeny fingers at me. "Why, are we going somewhere?"

"You said something last night about getting flowers for the table," I say, releasing her so she can wash up. "I thought we'd go over to Hunith's and you can pick something."

"I'd love that. And I'd like to meet Hunith," she smiles over her shoulder at me.

"She's been dying to meet you," I say, handing her a towel.

Hunith is with a customer when we walk into her shop. She looks up when we walk through the door and can't hold back her delighted grin when she sees that I've brought Guinevere with me.

I smile back and follow Guinevere as she walks around the shop, looking at everything. Loose flowers in the large cooler, arrangements, cards, balloons, small gifts, potted plants. I notice that Hunith now has a small corner devoted to her Ikebana arrangements, and Guinevere spends a lot of time looking at those.

The other customer leaves with a basket arrangement and a balloon with _Happy Birthday_ emblazoned across it. Hunith hurries right over to us.

"Arthur, my dear, so happy to see you again," she says. She even hugs me.

"Hello, Hunith, you know I wouldn't buy flowers anywhere else," I say, grinning. "This is my Guinevere," I introduce. "Guinevere, Hunith. Merlin's mum."

"Lovely to meet you, dear. I understand that you are the one responsible for this one's chipper demeanor," Hunith says, shaking Gwen's hand warmly.

"Pleased to finally meet you as well," she says, smiling. "And I cannot take full credit for Arthur's happiness. He can take some of that for himself."

"Of course he can," Hunith smiles. "Arthur, she's just lovely."

"I know," I agree, nodding as I gaze down at Guinevere. "Inside and out."

Guinevere smiles and blushes slightly. She's going to have to get used to compliments.

"Of course, he's no slob, either," Hunith whispers conspiratorially – and loudly – to Guinevere, who laughs, surprised.

"Indeed not," she agrees, wrapping her arm around my waist.

"What can I help you with today?" Hunith asks, turning to business.

"We are having a dinner party this evening and we'd like something for the table," Guinevere says.

We. I love that, too.

"Oh yes, my Merlin mentioned something about that. I often have him over for dinner on Saturday nights, but he told me that he had plans tonight with you and some others."

"Sorry to take him from you," I say, feeling a little guilty for denying a mother a dinner with her son.

"No, no, not at all," Hunith laughs. "It's fine. I mainly invite him over out of pity. Otherwise he'd be living on those cup-o-noodles."

Guinevere gives me such a look. I have to turn away slightly to stop myself from bursting forth with laughter.

Hunith sighs. "If he would stop messing about and just propose to Freya, I wouldn't have to worry about him so," she says. Then she shakes her head and waves her hands, as if clearing her thoughts. "But never mind that. You're looking for a centerpiece."

"Yes," Gwen says. "Nothing so big that we can't see one another around it."

"Of course not," Hunith agrees.

And they're off. I allow myself to wander while they discuss. I defer to Guinevere's judgment on things like this. I know I _could_ choose something, but I also know that this is something she enjoys.

"Arthur, love, what do you think of this one?" Guinevere calls across the shop. I walk over and see that she's pointing to an Ikebana arrangement in a low rectangular black lacquer container. It has rocks and some kind of twisty branch thing swooping over some orchids on short stems. I'm pretty sure they're orchids, anyway.

In any case, it's the one I had already spotted and liked. My heart, still three sizes larger with love, leaps at the realization that she chose the same one I would have.

"Perfect. That's exactly the one I would have chosen, actually," I say. She smiles that smile I love, the one I'd vowed to myself to make happen at least once a day.

"We'll take this one then, please," she says, turning to Hunith.

"Excellent," she says smiling.

xXx

I start getting bored and antsy in the afternoon. Guinevere is still puttering in the kitchen, though I can't imagine what she could be working on in there. The hens are in the oven already and everyone is bringing something to contribute.

She tries keeping me busy. I set the table. I had cleaned the living areas this morning, so I clean the bathroom this afternoon.

I hate waiting.

I walk into the kitchen to find Guinevere fussing with some small red potatoes, putting some in a pot and setting others aside.

"What are you doing?" I ask. It looks like she's excluding the larger ones.

"Sorting. I don't want the very large ones." She adds another potato to the pot.

"Ah," I say, standing directly behind her now. Her hair is held up out of her way with some kind of large plastic clip, and I cannot resist. I start kissing her neck. "Why?" I ask between kisses.

"Because for what I'm doing, the small ones will… work better. Arthur…"

Her head moves, angling away from me, allowing me better access to her delicious neck.

"What are you doing?" I ask, my lips never leaving her skin, my hands sliding down her arms to her waist.

"I'm… getting distracted by my boyfriend," she answers. I open my eyes and see that her hands are still, no longer sorting potatoes. I move, turning her to face me so I can get to the spot I want.

Her favorite spot on her neck. _My_ favorite spot. I place a wet, sucking kiss there, my tongue licking at her skin.

"Arthur…"

My hands slide down from her waist to cup her backside, pulling her closer, pressing her body against mine.

"We have some time… don't we?" I ask, lifting my head to look at her.

"Some," she says, biting her lip.

"I can be fast," I say, grinning.

"I don't _want_ you to be fast, Arthur," she answers, slapping my chest lightly.

"What do you want, then?" I ask, my voice low, rumbling in her ear. I nip her earlobe lightly.

"I want you to be _good,_ " she whispers throatily.

I groan. She's a temptress and she knows it. "Minx," I murmur. Then I bend down and pick her up, slinging her over my shoulder.

"Arthur!" she squeals. "What are you doing?"

"Well, I seem to recall _you_ were the one who was disappointed that I didn't drag you off to my cave the day we met," I say, squeezing her thigh.

Much to my surprise, she yelps and giggles when I do this. "Stop!"

She's ticklish there? How did I not discover this sooner? I do it again.

"Arthur!" she squeals, laughing despite herself.

I drop her gently on the bed and immediately crawl over her in case she gets ideas about escaping. "I found a new ticklish spot," I tease, sliding my hand up her leg. She's wearing shorts, and her skin feels amazing under my hand.

"Don't you dare!" she says, trying to sound threatening. I silence her with kisses, my hand continuing to slide up her thigh to the waist of her shorts, popping the button open as she starts pulling at my shirt.

In seconds we are both completely divested of our clothes and the bedspread is yanked back out of the way.

"You're going to have to make the bed again," Guinevere says, her hands wandering.

"Worth it," I say, moving my lips to her breast, kissing my way around, sucking an erect nipple into my mouth.

"Mmm." Her hand moves down, reaching for me, her strong, slender fingers closing around my shaft, stroking, drawing a groan from my throat.

My own hand goes exploring, slipping between her thighs. I groan again at how wet she already is for me.

She sighs, angling her hips into my hand, encouraging me.

I really don't need any encouragement, but I slide a finger deep inside her, slipping it in and out while I kiss her other breast.

Her hand feels _so_ good on me. But I need to be inside her. Now.

"Arthur," she mewls my name, and suddenly she shoves my shoulder.

All right, Love, you can be on top.

I roll onto my back and she straddles me, sliding herself down over me almost immediately.

"Oh…" I breathe, my hands skimming up and down her sides. "Mmm."

She rocks her hips, moving over me. A low moan escapes her lips, and I open my eyes and watch her, watch how beautiful she is, how amazing, how…

God…

She moves my hands to her breasts, and they flex into the soft mounds on their own.

My eyes close again, and my hips are moving, meeting her movements.

I feel her shift over me and feel her lips on mine, her legs winding around mine, using them to push herself up and down. I reach up and pull the large clip holding her hair, tossing it aside. Then I plunge my fingers into her curls, holding her head while she plunders my mouth with her tongue.

Our movements speed up, becoming almost frantic. She's whimpering now and then, sucking on my bottom lip, my tongue…

Bloody hell…

Shit… soon…

"Ah! Oh…" she exclaims, then sighs, releasing my lips suddenly as she comes. "Mmm…"

I groan, loud and long, her release triggering mine, my arms wrapping around her back, holding her tight to me. She is my anchor, my life preserver, my _life_ , and I cannot let go. I _will_ not let go.

"Mmm," she hums against me again.

"See? Fast _and_ good," I murmur, stroking the skin of her back as she lies on my chest.

She giggles and kisses my collarbone. I slide my hand down and squeeze that spot on her thigh. "Ah! Hey!" she exclaims, squirming on top of me.

"Keep that up and you won't get dinner finished," I tease, kissing her one more time before releasing her.

"Yes, and then you'll have something _else_ to explain," she says, throwing my shirt at me.

xXx

Our guests start arriving at about 6:45 for 7:00 dinner. Not surprisingly, Merlin and Freya are the first to appear, bringing dessert with them. Some kind of cheesecake that Freya made.

"It's lemon, I hope that's all right," Freya says.

"I love lemon," I say.

"It looks excellent," Guinevere says. "It feels cold, should I put it in the refrigerator?"

"If you have room," Freya answers, following her to the kitchen. "It smells really good in here."

"Hey, Merlin, thanks for coming, mate," I say, shaking his hand. This is the first time I've seen him in street clothes (shorts and a short-sleeved button-down shirt, plaid. We wanted everyone to be comfortable, so we specified casual), and bloody hell is he covered in tattoos. His arms and legs are practically more ink than skin.

"Not a problem at all. I know you need me mainly for support, since I already know the story."

"Have a seat," I gesture to the living room, letting him choose his seat. He picks Gwen's father's recliner.

"This is a good chair," he says, feeling the leather with his hands. "It is more than just a piece of furniture."

"Um, yes. It was Guinevere's father's," I say.

"Yes," he says, nodding. Freya and Guinevere walk back in, chatting about dinner. Something about the potatoes.

Percival and Sefa arrive next, a large bowl of tossed salad resting in Percival's large hands. Guinevere hugs Sefa, then takes the salad from Percival and sets it on the table. Then she hugs him hello, and he kisses her cheek.

They say their hellos to Freya, and Guinevere starts making introductions.

"Percival and Sefa, this is Dr. Merlin Emrys," she says. "Merlin, Percival Henderson and Sefa Ruadan."

Merlin stands and shakes their hands, smiling warmly. "Percival, brilliant season you're having. Way to take down du Lac last week," he says.

"Yes, that was a little fun, actually," Percival admits. "I usually don't celebrate my victories too much, but he's been acting a real twat lately."

"New girlfriend," I mutter to Guinevere. She shushes me, trying to bite back a giggle at my snarky comment.

"And Sefa, I remember you," Merlin says next, shaking her hand. "We met last year at your father's review."

"Yes," Sefa says quietly. "Thank you for being there."

"Well, technically I don't have a choice in the matter, but you are quite welcome. One day he may find his way back to the light," he says, giving her a reassuring smile, his hand on her shoulder.

"I do not think so. But it's all right, I've made my peace with him and with myself," she says.

"That is the important thing," Merlin says, nodding and giving her shoulder a squeeze.

Whoa. Sefa's father must be seriously gone.

"Freya, I'm dying to know what you made us for dessert," Percival pipes up, tactfully redirecting the conversation. "Sefa wouldn't tell me," he grins.

Freya cannot help but smile back at his boyish face. "Lemon cheesecake," she says.

"Ooo, yum," Percival says, smiling. I see Sefa taking Percival's hand, a small smile of thanks on her face.

Merlin watches this interaction between them, and I see him nod very slightly, as if he approves of Sefa's relationship with Percival.

Good. He should.

Finally, Leon and Gwaine buzz my door at 6:55. I have a feeling that punctuality is not Gwaine's strong suit, but I know that Leon would not permit them to be late.

"Hello, darling," Gwaine greets me with a hug, a bottle of wine in each hand. I shake Leon's hand hello as Gwaine strides past me, checking out my condo, making his assessment in a series of muttered comments.

"Classier than I was expecting, Blondie," he says, finally setting the bottles down on the dining room table. "But I suspect the Chickadee had a thing or two to do with it," he smirks. "Hello, Chickadee, my love, how are you?" he turns to Guinevere, giving her a kiss on the cheek when she hugs him hello.

"He's in top form tonight," I mutter to Leon, who snorts.

"He lives for this shit," Leon mutters back.

"Dinner parties?" I ask.

"Oh, yeah," he says. "Hey, Perce, how are you, mate?" he calls, walking over to Percival, who is saying hello to Gwaine.

"Wait, you lot need to meet Merlin," I say, stepping over. "Leon, Gwaine, this is Dr. Merlin Emrys," I say, following Guinevere's lead earlier. "Merlin, this is Leon Foreman and Gwaine Murphy."

"Weren't you Gwen's surgeon?" Leon asks, shaking Merlin's hand.

"Yes," Merlin nods, "that's actually how Arthur and I became friends."

"Blimey, you are the most tattooed Druid bloke I've ever seen," Gwaine says.

Merlin laughs. Only Gwaine can get away with things like that.

"I imagine so, yes," he simply says, shaking Gwaine's hand.

"So is it true that the amount of tattoos a Druid has is in direct proportion to the amount of power he possesses?" he asks.

We're all wondering. Gwaine just has bollocks enough to ask.

"Yes. That's completely true," Merlin says, holding Gwaine's gaze.

Gwaine stares back a moment. "Bloody hell, mate, you have amazing cheekbones, do you know that?" he blurts.

We all laugh, and a timer dings.

"Potatoes," Gwen says, jogging to the kitchen.

"Can I help?" Gwaine calls.

"Open the wine," Gwen answers, laughing.

Sefa follows Gwen, going unbidden to help while I usher everyone to the table. I sit at one end, leaving a seat beside me empty for Guinevere. Merlin sits at the other end, striding there like he knows that's where I want him to sit. Because I do. He nods at me across the table, as if to say _You can do this._

Gwen and Sefa come out from the kitchen, each carrying a plate in each hand.

"It was easier to serve this way," Guinevere explains while she and Sefa place plates in front of Freya, Merlin, Percival, and Leon. Each plate already has a beautiful golden hen on it.

"Well, eight hens would be a lot to carry," Leon says, watching as Gwaine pours wine in everyone's glass except for Merlin and Freya, who both decline politely.

"Can I get you something else?" Guinevere asks quietly. "I have…"

"Water would be lovely," Freya says, and Merlin nods in agreement.

They return with the other four plates, and then once again, Sefa with a pitcher of water and Guinevere with a platter of her little potatoes. They look really good. She boiled them until they were soft, then smashed each one into a flat patty, which she seasoned and baked until the outside was crispy. I tried to snitch one, but she caught me.

Merlin says a brief blessing in the Druid tongue, salad is passed, and everyone digs in.

"So Arthur, this news you have. Is this something that can be discussed while we eat or is it something gross?" Leon asks. He's clearly the most anxious to learn about my problem.

"Well, as long as you don't mind me occasionally talking with my mouth full," I say. "Guinevere, this chicken is amazing. What is this, an orange glaze?" Everyone is nodding their agreement around the table.

"Yes," she says.

"Well, it's bloody good," I say.

"Thank you," she says, blushing slightly.

"Okay," I sigh. Then I take a deep breath. "So the deal is this: For slightly more than two years, I've been living under a curse that my sister put on me. Guinevere – and Merlin – helped me break that curse last week Wednesday."

Leon, Percival and Gwaine just stare at me. I think they believe me, but they are simply stunned. Sefa nods slightly, as if everything suddenly makes sense. So does Freya.

"It's true," Merlin says. "Morgana Pendragon is very powerful, but she lacks judgment when she is hurting."

"Why was she hurting?" Percival asks.

"You guys remember Morgause?" I ask. Leon and Percival nod. "She was Morgana's half sister. No relation to me at all, obviously."

"Oh, shit…" Leon says, the pieces clicking into place. Percival's glass stops in midair on the way to his lips.

Of course they know what happened with her. But they're about to learn the ramifications of my actions.

I launch into my story, pausing only to take bites of food or sip from my drink. They listen patiently, sympathetically, I think, as I summarize the last two years of my life, ending with Guinevere and the realization that I truly loved her and became desperate to lift my curse.

Guinevere chimes in a bit now, giving her perspective, telling how she visited Morgana. They are all nearly as shocked as I was that she did that.

"You gained her respect that day, Gwen," Merlin says. "The fact that you would take the time to seek her out to try to help Arthur, to save your love, earned you a place in her heart."

"Do you know Morgana?" I ask. I have been curious about this. Morgana isn't a Druid, but she is a member of the magical community.

"Our paths cross occasionally," he says. "We have met several times, and are… aware of one another. Occasionally I see what she is up to and vice versa."

"Well, that certainly clears it up," I say.

"Sorry. I do try not to be all… magic-y. But there really is no simple way to describe my relationship with Morgana. She's one of the most powerful non-Druids in Camelot, so naturally we know each other in some respect. I try to stay out of her business, generally."

"Except for me," I say. I realize that the rest of the table is watching my conversation with Merlin like a tennis match, eyes moving back and forth. "But that certainly explains why you were so cryptic with your help."

"Hey, I was quite up-front about my reasons for being cryptic," he says, laughing.

"Were you afraid of Morgana doing something to you?" Gwaine asks. "Because apparently she's not above implementing retribution."

"No," Merlin says. "She cannot harm me." He waves his hand casually, almost dismissively. "It was more… how can I explain it…?"

"Professional courtesy," Freya says, her soft voice clear as a bell in the quiet of the dining room.

"Yes, thank you, Love, that's it exactly," Merlin says.

"Why can't she harm you?" Percival asks. I'm happy that they all feel comfortable enough with him to ask questions.

"Um, well, she can try. But… I'm more powerful than she is," Merlin admits quietly, his ears turning slightly pink. He reaches for his water.

He doesn't like discussing his powers, I realize.

"So how, exactly, did you break this curse?" Freya asks. She knows perfectly well how I broke the curse. I can see it on her face. She's rescuing Merlin. I see his eyes flick to her for just a moment, grateful.

"I said the Big Words, of course," I say, smiling. "I had to tell her I loved her. I knew I did, had known since her surgery, in fact. But I held it in like an idiot, thinking it was futile. Seems completely stupid now. If I had said it earlier, I wouldn't have wound up blurting it out at 11:59 and change on Day 60, in the midst of what I thought was a heart attack." It's almost funny now.

Almost.

"Well, you didn't know, did you?" Percival says. "All you _knew_ was that come Day 60, you'd have to say goodbye one way or the other. The rest was all guessing, right?"

People don't realize how remarkably deep Percival actually is. All they see is this huge bloke who's good with a lance (that's what she said), and assume he's just another dumb jock.

"Exactly," I say. "And honestly, had I said 'I love you' to any of those other birds, it wouldn't have worked. I had to be _ready_ to say it, actually _say_ it, and _mean_ it. Like, _really_ mean it. Until Guinevere, none of those things were possible."

"So, if you had met Gwen earlier, like last year…?" Gwaine asks.

"I don't know. I'm not the same person I was, even since last year," I shrug. "I think I _needed_ to go through all that hell to get to this point. I would still be out there shagging any attractive bird that was willing, otherwise," I say. Morgana did help me. I can admit this now, a week and a half removed.

"I don't know that that's necessarily true," Leon says.

"Don't you?" Percival asks, raising an eyebrow at Leon. Gwaine chokes on his wine.

Percival's bald honesty makes me laugh, actually, surprising everyone. "Sorry, mate, but that _was_ funny," I say. "Even if it was at my expense."

"Tell them about the letters," Guinevere says once the laughter dies down again.

"I wrote letters. Like _real_ letters, by hand, to each one of the women I dated under this curse, explaining and apologizing," I say.

"Good for you, mate," Leon says. "Do you think any of them will reply?"

"I don't know. I just posted them Monday morning, so it's still too early to tell."

"Did Mayor Godwin give you any trouble?" Percival asks.

"Actually, no. He seemed pleased by it, honestly. Maybe because she's all the way in America and happily married, so I'm not a threat," I chuckle.

"Did you tell him why you were writing her?" he asks.

"Not exactly," I say. "I just told him I wanted to congratulate her on her wedding. Which I did do in her letter. Congratulated her and wished her well," I say.

"Gwen, you're okay with all of this?" Sefa asks, speaking for the first time in a while.

"Yes, Sefa, I am, thank you. Arthur's past is his past. It helped shape who he is today, and he's not the man he was when Morgana cursed him. We are all the product of our experiences, good and bad. The man he is today is the man I love, not the man he was two years ago."

"Hang on to her," Percival says.

"I plan to," I answer, reaching for Guinevere's hand. I lift it to my lips and kiss her knuckles gently.

I get that smile again.

xXx

We decide to wait a bit before having dessert, and move to the living room, where we sit around and chat a bit more casually now. I feel lighter still, happy to have finally told my two best friends about this massive secret I'd been keeping from them.

That reminds me. Percival and Leon are seated conveniently near one another, so I walk over.

"Hey guys, I'm really sorry that I kept all this from you," I say. "I was… mostly embarrassed, to be honest. And me being me, I thought I could handle it on my own. It's the sprained knee all over again, hey?" I smile weakly at them.

Leon and Percival glance at one another. "We understand, mate," Leon says. "I mean, I always kind of suspected _something_ was up with you, but I never would have guessed 'curse' in a million years, witch for a sister or no."

"Yeah, forget it. I mean, I kind of worried about you, with the fact that you were always with a woman but never for very long, but since I don't see you every day the way Leon does, it was easier for me to not be as suspicious," Percival says. "I'm just happy that you've found someone that makes _you_ happy."

"And keeps your arse in line," Leon teases. "Holy hell, look at the three of us, all domesticated and happy." He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. "Wait, does this mean we're grown up now?"

"No," Percival and I answer together, laughing.

"Oh, good. I was worried there for a second," Leon sighs exaggeratedly. "You're moving in with Sefa soon, right?" he asks Percival.  
"Already halfway in. Mum is alternating between being giddy with joy for us and weeping openly that her little boy is moving out," he says.

"When were you ever little?" I ask.

"Hey, I was only six and a half pounds when I was born," he says, protesting. "I just… grew. And you've seen my granddad, come on."

Percival's grandfather – his mum's dad – is a huge bloke. He's shrunk a bit as he's aged, but he was at least as big as Percival. And I guess his dad was pretty big, too. Never met him, but I have seen a picture or two. We talk about Percival's dad about as often as we talk about my mum. So, almost never.

"What are you ladies gossiping about over here?" Gwaine comes sauntering over and plants himself on Leon's lap.

Leon looks around and sees that Sefa is nowhere to be seen, likely in the loo. "About to ask Percival when he's going to propose to Sefa, actually."

Percival turns red and rubs his short hair with his hand. He does that when he's uncomfortable or embarrassed. "Um, next weekend, actually. I think she already knows, but is letting me think I'm surprising her."

"Hazard of dating a Druid, mate," Gwaine says.

Speaking of Druids, I look around, making sure Merlin isn't being ignored. Guinevere is chatting with him and Freya, and a moment later they stand. She's giving them the tour, I think.

Yep, that's what she's doing.

"You think she'll say yes?" Percival asks.

I try not to roll my eyes. Gwaine makes no such effort. "Don't be a twat, mate, of _course_ she's going to say yes."

"It was love at first… speak, I guess it would be, for you two, wasn't it?" Leon says, remembering that they spoke on the phone before they even saw one another.

"Yeah," Percival admits, looking at his shoes. "She's really great. Did I tell you I met her father?" he asks, looking up again. "Well, sort of. He's a little out of his mind."

"No! When did this happen?"

"Last week. Probably when you were dealing with your whole mess," he says to me. "She asked me if I was willing to meet him, and I told her I was, even though I was pretty nervous about it. Because I'll do anything for her, you know? She wants me to meet her criminally insane warlock father? I will meet her criminally insane warlock father. Her terminology, by the way, not mine."

I didn't realize that Sefa was so flippant about her father. Probably a defense mechanism. I know a bit about dealing with difficult fathers, but I think hers trumps mine.

"How was it?" I ask.

"Weird. Uncomfortable, to be honest. She assured me that I wouldn't have to guard my thoughts, but I still did. Because you can't help it, you know? Hi, Love," he says suddenly, looking up to see Sefa coming towards us. "I was just telling them that I met your father."

One point for honesty to Percival Henderson.

"Yeah, that was weird, wasn't it?" she asks. "He did very well," she says, tucking herself onto Percival's lap. She almost looks like a child. "Father is… difficult. I think it's a good thing he doesn't always know where he is."

"Nigel Ruadan has Issues," Merlin chimes in. I can hear the capitol 'I' on 'Issues' in his voice. He pulls up a chair, and pretty soon we are all gathered in a cluster, talking and gossiping and laughing like we are all old friends, not a mixture of old and new.

Gwaine is relentless, grilling Merlin about anything magical. Apparently he's fascinated by the Druid people, but has never been close enough with one to ask all his questions. Eventually he gets Merlin to admit that he's the dragonlord, celebrating with a triumphant "I knew it!" followed by him playfully grabbing Merlin's head and poking the triskelion tattoo on the back of his neck.

"I saw this, and I _knew_ he had to be you. You had to be him, I mean."

"Stop molesting the good doctor, Pet," Leon says, tugging his arm back.

"It's all right," Merlin laughs. "It's actually… refreshing to have people that aren't all _ooo_ …" he makes a face and waggles his fingers, "when they find out who and what I am. Okay, I'm crazy gifted. But I'm still just a person."

"Your mum raised you right," Gwen declares. "I met her this morning, by the way. She's lovely."

"Yes, she said the same about you," he laughs. "She called me the second the two of you left the shop."

"Are you disappointed I didn't serve cup-o-noodles?" she asks, smirking at him.

"She told!" Merlin exclaims, laughing.

"It's no secret that while you are a powerful wizard, you're extraordinarily lazy when it comes to cooking, my love," Freya says. "He could magic himself up a steak, but he prefers to eat pre-packaged food only fit for university students."

"I don't use my magic for bollocks like that," he says. "That's kind of… silly."

"I know. 'The key to staying sane with the amount of power I have is knowing when to use it,'" she quotes, smiling at him.

"Sounds familiar," he says, grinning at her. He lifts their joined hands and kisses her knuckles.

"Is that a quote? Who said that?" Leon asks.

"He did," I nod at Merlin. "Said it to me once, in fact, when I was whining about him not helping me enough. Or something."

"Sounds about right," Merlin agrees.

"Anyone else ready for dessert?" Gwaine asks. "We've waited long enough, right?"

"I think so," Percival agrees. I can't imagine where he'll put it. He ate his entire hen and half of Sefa's as well.

"All right, then," Guinevere says, standing. Freya follows her to the kitchen to serve her dessert.

xXx

"That went well, I think," Guinevere says after everyone has left. "I think they all really liked Merlin, too."  
"Gwaine certainly did," I laugh. "But you're right. They all did. Gwaine was just the funniest. I don't think Merlin actually has a lot of friends, so that's good."

"Yeah, I got that sense as well when he said that people get all weird when they find out about him. That's probably why he's so low-key about his powers."

"Undoubtedly. I think he's just a humble bloke, too, though," I say. She nods and heads into the bathroom.

They all helped clean everything up, which was fantastic. Because that means Guinevere and I can just go to bed.

"Do you feel better, my love?" she asks me later, curled against me in the dark

"I do," I answer. "Tremendously."

"I can tell," she says, squeezing me. "I like relaxed and happy Arthur."

"Me, too," I sigh. "I love you so much, Guinevere. I can't stop saying it." I can't stop smiling. She lifts her head and I kiss her, lingering over her lips. "I guess I just feel so… fortunate that I _can_ say it," I mutter, kissing her some more.

"I love you, Arthur," she whispers, pushing herself higher, leaning over me.

I groan and roll us so she is beneath me, and I take control, losing myself in her again.

Losing myself and finding myself again.


	65. Day 81

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Guinevere Get Onion Rings

She's working late again.

Well, perhaps "again" isn't exactly accurate. She doesn't work late often at all. Neither is "late." It's only going on six.

She has a set of matching necklaces for a wedding party this weekend that had gotten behind schedule due to, well, business being too good. She decided to discontinue being open on Saturday mornings (with some gentle encouragement from me), and it's increased her Monday-through-Friday business. Odd, considering she was rarely busy on Saturday mornings.

She's likely going to bring on another assistant, especially now that Sefa and Percival are engaged. Sefa's going to want to travel with him, which is only right.

But I have Plans tonight. Surprise Plans.

And if she doesn't come home soon, I'm going to go to the shop.

Okay, I'm going.

Bloody hell, I'm impatient sometimes.

I check my pocket and head out the door.

I let myself in, announcing my arrival so she doesn't think I'm a prowler. "Hello."

"I'm almost done, Mr. Impatient," she says, grinning at me from her workbench. I can see she's got the necklaces all lined up on the bench, each one sitting on its own little velvet drawstring bag.

If she's done with those, what is she doing? I lean over her shoulder and kiss her cheek, peeking at what she's working on.

"What's that?"

"Ring repair. It was a really simple fix, so I thought I'd take two more minutes to take care of it. It's the bride's mother's ring, by the way."

"Ah," I say, hovering nearby, my hand in my pocket. "They're coming to pick them up tomorrow?" I ask.

"Yes. Can you pass me that ring mandrill?"

The what?

"Sure, if you tell me what that is," I say.

"It's on the shelf behind you. Long metal rod, tapered."

I turn, and see it sitting there. It's surprisingly heavy and solid, with little numbered marks at regular intervals along the length of it. Ring sizes?

Inspiration hits. Quickly, I take it out of my pocket and slip it over the end of the ring mandrill. Then I hand it to her.

"Ah, you found it," she says, reaching for the tool. "What's this?" She slides the ring of folded paper off the end and unfolds it.

She reads. She gasps. She turns. She leaps.

"Yes, Arthur, of course I will!" she says in my ear. Her voice is a hushed but excited whisper and her arms are tight around my neck. My arms wrap around her, holding her tightly to me. I tuck my face into her neck, squeezing my eyes shut against the tears of joy that I'm not entirely surprised to find falling.

I realize her feet aren't on the floor, so I gently set her down, kissing her, cupping her cheeks in my hands, my thumbs softly wiping her tears.

"I love you, Guinevere. The only thing I want in this world is to know that you are mine forever," I whisper, my forehead resting against hers.

"I am yours, just as you are mine. Forever," she whispers back, kissing me again. "I love you so much."

I sit on the stool and pull her into my lap, kissing her some more. We kiss, we hug, we just enjoy ourselves for a few minutes until reality starts to creep back in.

"Arthur," she mutters, "I need to take one more minute to finish that ring."

"I know," I say. "We can continue this when we get home." I give her one more kiss and stand, letting her have her stool back.

"May I ask a question?"

"Of course," I say, watching as she clamps the ring mandrill thing in a vise on her desk. She slides the ring over it, and I can now see that the metal is not perfectly round.

"Why the little note?"

"Oh, no, are you… you're disappointed I didn't do the whole getting-down-on-one-knee thing. I was going to—"

"No, I love what you did, honest," she interrupts, turning back to me again. "It's just that I know there's a reason why you gave me a ring made out of paper, and I'm curious as to what it is, that's all."

Oh, that. "Um, yeah. Well, I wanted to get you a ring, but… it just doesn't feel right buying jewelry for a girl who _makes_ jewelry, you know? Especially because your stuff is so cool. I didn't want to insult you by buying a ring designed by someone else, but I also didn't want to insult you by…"

"By assuming I'd make my own engagement ring?" she finishes, smirking at me.

"Yes," I sigh. I've been agonizing over this for a while now, longer than she probably realizes. "You know I'll get you whatever you want, but… I need a little help here. I just don't know what to do."

Suddenly, she laughs. "Oh, Arthur, you are so sweet," she says, taking both of my hands. "I'm sorry to laugh; I'm not really laughing _at_ you, Love. But you're so worried about this and it's just so cute. I'm actually quite happy with my little origami ring."

"Well, _technically_ it's not origami. I just folded it up and kind of… stuck one end into the other…"

"Arthur," she says, her face soft and sweet, "it's not about the ring. It's about the commitment. The ring is just a symbol. You could have given me an… an onion ring and I still would have said yes. It's _you_ and your beautiful heart that matter to me."

"This is why I love you," I say, lifting our joined hands so I can kiss hers. "One of the many reasons, actually."

She smiles that smile for me. "I have an idea."

"You do? Good," I say, releasing her hands. She picks up the note, my sad little piece of paper with the words _Will you marry me?_ written on it, smiles as she re-reads it, then re-folds it.

"Here," I give her the box that I originally intended to give her, and she carefully tucks it inside.

"Why don't we design something together? The whole set. For both of us," she suggests, holding the box between her hands.

"Really? Because I would love that," I say.

"Me, too. And I'm still keeping this," she said, holding up the little box. She leans up, kisses me once more, and turns back to the task from which I keep interrupting her.

I watch as she carefully strikes the ring on the mandrill with a mallet whose head looks like it's made out of one of those rawhide dog chews. She uses just the right amount of force to make the ring round again without stretching the metal and increasing its size.

Watching her work jogs my memory. "In my dream you made my wedding ring," I say.

"I did? How do you know?" she asks, setting her mallet down.

"I distinctly remember driving with our daughter," my lips curve into an unconscious smile, "and looking at it on my hand. I just… knew you had made it," I say, looking down at my left hand, which looks a bit bare all of a sudden.

"Wow," she says. "Do you remember what it looked like?"

"I think so. I'll draw it for you later," I answer, looking back up at her.

She smiles and nods. Then she takes the ring off of the mandrill and un-clamps the mandrill from the vise. She grabs her safety glasses and pauses as she walks past me.

"One more," she whispers, leaning up on her toes to kiss me. I give her a soft kiss and then she walks over to a large metal machine with a couple of wheels on the front.

Guinevere puts her glasses on, then flips a switch, firing the machine to life. It appears to be a polishing machine. She takes a block of some brown material and holds it to one wheel, which looks like it has some sort of soft covering. Then she runs the surface of the ring over the wheel, stopping and inspecting it periodically as she goes.

It's loud, so I say nothing, stepping closer to watch but not too close because I don't have any safety glasses on. I can imagine the ring becoming quite the projectile if she were to lose her grip.

Seemingly satisfied with the results of the brown stuff, she steps over to the other wheel and presses a block of red material to it. These blocks almost look like bars of soap, but I know they couldn't possibly be. She does the same thing to the ring with the red, and I can actually see the ring getting shinier and shinier.

"All done," she says, flipping the machine off. She shows me the ring. It looks brand new. She frowns a moment, takes a cloth from her bench, and rubs a spot. "Better," she declares.

I don't see the difference, but I'm not the professional here.

"Let's go," she says. "Hungry."

"Yes," I say, waiting as she tidies up a bit and washes her hands.

"So, Arthur," she says, starting for the door, "is there anything _else_ I should know about this dream?" She looks over her shoulder at me, grinning mischievously.

"Um… no, I think that's everything," I say, laughing. "Wait, I told you that you were newly pregnant in the dream, too, right?"

"Yes," she laughs.

"Then that's everything," I nod. "So what are you hungry for?"

"Onion rings," she declares, walking ahead of me out the door. I follow, laughing happily.

xXx

We go to the Rising Sun for dinner, because they have good onion rings there. Guinevere's car is still at her shop, but I'll just drop her off tomorrow morning. I almost wish I had waited until Friday to ask so we could have the next two days to ourselves for celebrating, but I just couldn't wait any longer.

I'd already waited long enough.

"I'd like to take you out this weekend for a proper celebratory dinner," I tell her.

She smiles at me. "That would be nice. But I do like this as well," she says.

"I know. I just don't want you to think now that I've, um, put a ring on it, so to speak, that I'm going to get complacent. Because I'm not," I say. I reach across for her hand. "Guinevere, I promise you right now that I will never take you for granted. That I will always do everything I can to show you how much I love you. How much I appreciate you."

"Thank you, Arthur. And I promise that I won't ever take you or your love for granted, either," she says softly. "We worked so hard for this, worked so hard to lift this curse – especially you." Her lips curve into a little smile and she rubs her thumb on my hand. "I don't see you forgetting all that any time soon."

I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles. "No. I won't be forgetting any of that. I won't forget how you helped me. How you always stuck by me, even when you had no idea why I was acting strangely. Even when I finally told you what it was. How you came over on Day 60 and would not leave." I'm grinning at her now. "Little bully, you are."

"Was not," she argues, trying not to grin back at me. "I was just giving you some… gentle encouragement, that's all."

"Oh, is that what it was?" I ask, chuckling.

"Yes."

"Well, thank you. A million times over, thank you," I say, kissing her fingertips now.

Back at home, we cuddle on the couch, watching TV. Sort of. We tend to get distracted. I'm about to suggest that we just give in and go to bed, but then a thought occurs to me.

I don't know where it came from or why, but I think I need to call Morgana.

"I'm going to call Morgana and tell her the news," I say. I suppose I could wait until morning, but… no. I want to tell her.

I'm not sure why, but I do.

She probably knows already anyway, but she'll appreciate the gesture.

"That's an excellent idea," Guinevere says, handing me my phone. She's kind of on top of me, so it was easier for her to reach. She scoots down a little, lying so her head is on my chest.

"Congratulations again, little brother," her smooth voice answers immediately.

"See, I knew you already knew," I say. "And hello, by the way."

"Hello. Arthur, I knew before you did," she says, chuckling. "I knew when you called me 51 days ago."

Oh. Well, then. "So you knew that I'd get this all sorted out?"

"That was one possible future, yes," she confirms. "You don't want to know the other one."

"No, I don't think I do. I'm sure my imagination did an adequate job of conjuring up something close to what you saw, anyway," I say, laughing.

"Have you told Uther yet?" she asks. She always calls him Uther when he's not within earshot.

"No, actually, you're my first call. Doesn't he turn into a pumpkin by nine, anyway?" I ask.

"Well, I probably could arrange that…" she says, laughing.

I laugh suddenly as well, surprised. When did she become funny? Has she always been so and I never noticed?

"Probably not the best idea. But I'd pay money to see it nevertheless," I say. "His head is already pretty round, you know…"

"Don't tempt me," she says. She pauses a minute. "Thank you for calling, Arthur. I know you didn't have to, but… I do appreciate the thought and the effort."

"You're welcome. I'm, um, trying. To be better. About a lot of things, actually," I say. I feel Guinevere squeeze me, hugging her support for what I'm saying.

I want to try to repair what I broke. And though I haven't said anything to Guinevere about this, she obviously knows my mind.

It's something I've been pondering since Guinevere told me about her visit to Morgana, when she told me that I only think of my sister as "Morgana the witch" instead of "Morgana the human being."

"Well…" Morgana says, sighing, "I haven't exactly been the world's greatest sister, either, so I think we both have some improving to do."

Wow.

"I actually wouldn't mind seeing you again, if you're up for it," I say. Hesitantly.

She's quiet a moment. "Would you and Gwen like to come over for dinner Friday night?"

"Guinevere, Morgana would like to have us for dinner Friday," I say, smirking at her.

"Don't say it like that!" Morgana exclaims, but she's laughing.

So is Gwen. Loudly. "Tell her that I'll make sure to marinate myself before I come over, then," she says.

Now I'm laughing as well. "Did you get that?" I ask Morgana.

"Yes," she says, laughing harder now.

This is so bizarre.

But I like it.

"Can we bring something?" Guinevere asks, lifting her head and speaking into my phone now.

"Some of those cupcakes," Morgana says.

"How do you know about the cupcakes?" I ask.

"I was worried about Gwen when she had her appendix out, all right?" she says. "I don't normally spy on you. Like I said, I have better things to do with my time."

"Okay, chocolate salted caramel cupcakes," I say, nodding. I feel Guinevere nod against my chest as well. "See you Friday, then."

"Six o'clock," she says. "Tell Gwen that Wolfe misses her."

"Um, that's your snake, right?" I ask.

"Yes. He likes Gwen."

"Of course he does," I say.

"See you Friday, Arthur," she says.

"All right. Good night." I disconnect and set my phone down. "Morgana's snake misses you, apparently."

She doesn't say anything for a long moment. "I don't know how I feel about that information," she finally answers, chuckling. "I mean, he was a _nice_ snake and everything, but…"

"I know. It's a strange message to pass along as well."

"You going to call Uther?"

"No, it's too late. I don't want to wake him. I'll tell him at work tomorrow morning."

"Okay," she says. "You don't want to call anyone else?"

I puzzle at her momentarily. "Not tonight, I don't think. Why?"

She scoots higher, kissing me. "Because I want to make sure I have you all to myself. If there's anyone else you want to call, do it now."

I raise an eyebrow at her. "And if not?"

She pushes my chin to the side with one finger and softly kisses my ear, working her way along the edge, starting at my earlobe and moving upwards.

I groan as my eyes drift closed and my hands tighten on her back before sliding down to her bum.

"I'd like for my fiancé to take me to bed," she whispers, sucking my earlobe into her mouth, biting it just hard enough.

"I'd like that, too," I say, shifting, starting to sit up. She stands while I switch the telly off, and then I scoop her into my arms and carry her – properly this time – to our bedroom.

I am definitely not making any more phone calls tonight.

There's only one person I want to see or speak to now.

The woman I love.

The woman I am going to marry.

The woman with whom I will spend the rest of my life.

My Guinevere.


	66. Day 83

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dinner with Morgana

"No ring? Arthur!" Morgana chastises me ten seconds after we step inside her cottage, Gwen's left hand clasped in hers for inspection.

"There's a reason, honest!" I say, trying to defend myself. Then I see that Morgana is smirking and Guinevere is trying not to laugh.

"Well, of _course_ there's a reason," Morgana says, releasing Gwen's hand.

"We're going to design and make them together," Guinevere explains.

Make? I get to help make them as well? This is news. But I'll ask about that later.

"I would expect nothing less," Morgana agrees. "Come, sit. I'll take those," she adds, lifting the box of cupcakes from my hands.

"Where's your snake?" I ask, looking around. Then something white slides past my feet. "Oh."

"Please do try not to step on my familiar," Morgana says over her shoulder, leading us to her living room.

Guinevere bends down, kneeling on the floor. "Hello, Wolfe," she says, and I watch in amazement as the large python slithers over and rests his head on her knee. She strokes his head fondly. I swear if he could purr, he would. "Have you met Arthur?" she asks.

"If you sit, he'll follow," Morgana tells her. She's bringing over three glasses of wine on a small tray.

Guinevere sits beside me on the small couch, and, as predicted, Wolfe makes his way up the side of the couch, working towards coiling himself on her lap.

Now I'm jealous of a snake. Even though he makes me a bit uneasy.

I'm not _afraid_ of snakes, obviously, but knowing that this snake… communicates with my sister makes me a little nervous.

It doesn't seem to bother Guinevere at all. Of course, this isn't her first encounter with him. And she knows he likes her.

"Wolfe, this is Arthur," she says.

"He knows who you are, actually," Morgana tells me. "He knows you're my brother."

"Hello," I say.

I'm talking to a snake.

"He can tell you are wary, Arthur. Relax, he's not going to hurt you and he's _not_ going to tell me anything I don't already know."

I reach my hand out and touch his head. Guinevere is right; he does feel warm and scaly and dry. His tongue flicks out once or twice.

"He's smelling you," Gwen says.

"Smashing," I say. "No offense," I add.

Morgana laughs.

"He's quite heavy," Guinevere remarks, looking down at him.

"Yes," Morgana agrees. "He will leave before he puts your legs to sleep, I promise."

I take a sip of my wine, trying to decide if I'm just not used to this Morgana or if I never really knew her. This Morgana is friendly. Almost charming. Humorous. The Morgana I remember was spiteful. Sullen. Bitter, even as a child.

I guess she grew up. Hopefully she knows I did as well.

Morgana suddenly sits up straight, angling her head. Is she getting a premonition? A vision?

"That'll be the bread. Dinner's ready," she announces.

Oh. I guess she _can_ use her powers for non-life-dominating purposes as well.

"We're having steak, Arthur. Your favorite," she says, smiling.

"Oh," I say, surprised. "Thanks."

She nods once and turns to the snake coiled on Guinevere's lap. "Come, Wolfe." She bends down, lifts him quite easily, and takes him to a large, tree-like apparatus in one corner.

Honestly, I was a little worried the snake was going to dine with us. I know what snakes eat. That would not have been pleasant.

I suppose I should give Morgana _some_ credit, though.

We follow Morgana into her kitchen, where she has a small table set for three.

"I hope you don't mind eating in the kitchen," she says.

"Not at all," Gwen says. "It's very cozy."

We sit to eat, and I have to say that Morgana does cook a very nice snake—I mean, steak.

Gah. Pull it together.

"This is very good," I say.

We eat quietly for a bit, as if none of us really knows what to say. Finally, Morgana speaks.

"How did Uther take the news of your engagement?" she asks.

"You mean you don't know?" I answer her question with a question.

"I don't see _everything,_ " she tells me. "I have neither the time nor the inclination. And you know I barely speak to him."

"Father didn't take the news of Morgana's… gift… well," I explain to Guinevere.

"So you didn't always have your powers?" she asks Morgana.

"When I came of age, at 16," she explains. "But that is another story for another day," she waves it off. "So?"

"He likes Guinevere, actually, so he was very happy. I think he likes her more than he likes me, sometimes…"

"Arthur, that's not true. You're his son," Guinevere says.

"He thinks you walk on water, Guinevere," I answer. She rolls her eyes. "You remember what he said."

Guinevere nods, frowning slightly. Morgana asks, "What did he say?"

"He said, 'That's excellent news, Arthur. I feel a lot better about one day handing the reins of this company over to you now that I know she'll be beside you, keeping you in line.' As if I can't do anything on my own. No offense intended, Love."

Gwen casually waves a hand, her mouth full. She knows exactly what I mean. We already discussed it at length last night.

"Uther's an idiot most of the time," Morgana says. "He doesn't trust anyone. Except _maybe_ his little boyfriend, Geoffrey."

Guinevere chokes on her wine and I reach over to pat her back while she tries to recover.

"Sorry, Gwen," Morgana says, smiling apologetically. She waits for Guinevere's coughing to end, then continues. "All he sees when he looks at you is the boy who was too stubborn to ask for help, just like all he sees when he looks at me is the daughter he never wanted who turned out to be a witch."

She's completely correct, of course. A heavy silence descends over the dinner table.

"I'm not going to tell Father," I say after a minute. "About the curse."

Morgana looks up, surprised. "You're not?"

"As far as I'm concerned, he doesn't need to know," I say with a shrug. "Your relationship with him is strained enough—"

"Try nonexistent," she interjects, but doesn't sound bitter about this. I think she's actually glad she doesn't have to deal with him anymore.

"Right. But I don't need to add fuel to the fire, you know? He can go to his grave never knowing about any of this," I say.

"Thank you, Arthur. I'm… touched," she says, blinking her surprise.

I suppose I should be pleased that I have the ability to surprise someone as powerful as Morgana, a witch known for her gift of Sight.

I smile at her. "You know, I don't think telling him even crossed my mind. It was never a consideration, really."

"Oh," she says, like she doesn't know what to say. Guinevere reaches for my hand.

"Arthur isn't the man he used to be, Morgana," Guinevere says softly. "The man you cursed is, for all intents and purposes, gone."

Morgana stares at me for a long moment. She looks over at Guinevere, then back to me. "I'm beginning to see that," she says.

We're all done eating, so we clear the dishes and start to help clean up, but she waves us off. "That will be sorted later," she says. Somehow I have a feeling the dishes do themselves around here.

We head back into the living room and sit, Gwen nestled against my shoulder.

"Your house is very nice, Morgana," I say. "I have to admit I'm surprised. I was expecting something either darker or…"

"Creepy?" she supplies, raising an eyebrow at me.

"I was going to go with 'Spartan,' but I suppose 'creepy' is also true," I say, smiling a little.

"Well, if you had bothered to visit me before now, you would have known already," she says, arching an eyebrow at me.

"You've never invited me," I point out.

"You're my brother; you don't need an invite."

"Yeah, because we've had such a close relationship thus far…"

"Arthur," Guinevere starts to intervene, thinking an argument is building.

We're not even close to arguing, actually.

"It's fine, Gwen. This is nothing at all compared to when we were kids," she laughs. "Hell, this is a civilized conversation," she adds, and now I start laughing.

Guinevere just shakes her head at us. I guess her relationship with her brother was a bit different than my relationship with Morgana.

Probably a good thing.

"Well, since we seem to be clearing the air, or starting anew or what have you…" Morgana starts, then pauses. "I'm sorry, Arthur. For cursing you. Well, I am and I'm not. It's complicated." She furrows her brow, searching for the words.

"I think I understand," I say. "You're sorry because it made me unhappy, especially towards the end, but you're not sorry because it actually helped me?" I turn my guess into a question at the last minute, losing my nerve.

"Something like that. I know it was unfair of me to wield my power over you that way. It was very… reactionary. I was…" Morgana trails off, momentarily lost for words.

"You were hurting," Guinevere supplies, her voice soft. I notice Wolfe has made his way over to her again, coiled beside her now, his spade-shaped head resting on her knee.

The snake has a crush on my Guinevere.

"Yes, but I was also, well…" Morgana hesitates, then takes a deep breath. "When Morgause died… it scared me."

Morgana, scared? I am floored.

"Yes, I was scared," she repeats, as if she were reading my thoughts. "I was scared because I didn't see it coming, even though I was gifted with premonition. I was scared of the unpredictability of life…" She falters, biting her lower lip, appearing as though she is trying to find the words to help us understand.

"'Free will is a bitch sometimes,'" I mutter unthinkingly. "Oh. Sorry. Merlin said that to me once…"

"Oh, yes, the good Doctor Dragonlord," Morgana says, smiling a little. "Curious chap, him. But he's right. Even though I can See, things can change with the blink of an eye. I felt… helpless. And that's the scariest feeling of all."

The worst. "I completely agree with that," I say. "Bloody hell, is it possible we have something in common?" I ask, feigning horror.

She laughs. "Heavens, no," she protests. "Unthinkable." She sighs. "But you know what else, Arthur?"

"Hmm?"

"I was scared for you as well. I saw the path you were on. Just with my own eyes, no magic. It was a dark path, leading only to self-destruction."

Wow.

"Now, before you go thinking I've gone soft, I didn't have this realization until about a week ago," she says, qualifying her previous statement. "At the time, I was only thinking 'How can I make him suffer?' But on reflection, I think I was worried about you and where you were headed. A little."

"I don't know what to say," I say. "Thank you, I guess?"

"Was it this fear that drove you to develop your gift of Sight?" Guinevere asks, finally speaking. She's been watching and listening silently for a while, absently petting Wolfe.

"Yes," Morgana says. "For a while, I was obsessed. I worked and worked to be able to See more, and more clearly. I studied and learned how to hone my skill. Develop my gift. I almost lost myself… almost went crazy living in the world of possible futures. I lost track of reality." She stops, closing her eyes.

Again: wow. I didn't know any of this. I feel Guinevere take my hand.

"Then one day it hit me: There had to have been more going on with Morgause that would have influenced her actions that night. She wouldn't have killed herself just because _you_ broke up with her," she continues.

"I certainly hope not," I say softly. "You have no idea how awful I felt… still feel…"

"I know how awful you feel _now_. What I didn't know is that you felt that way _then_. I didn't think you were capable, to be honest," she says, smiling a little.

"I do have a conscience," I smile back at her.

"As I said, I know that now," she sighs. "It turns out my opinion of you was just as biased as yours was of mine."

"Morgana the witch," I say, grinning at her.

"Arthur the man-whore," she returns, grinning right back.

Guinevere just shakes her head again, looking somewhat baffled by this bizarre exchange.

Morgana's smile fades and she continues. "Anyway, I got to thinking: What else was going on with Morgause that I didn't know about? She was my sister, and it turns out I didn't know her any better than I knew you, though I thought I did."

"Did you see her very often?" Guinevere asks.

"A bit more than I did Arthur," she answers. "I felt closer to her," she tells me.

"I know," I say simply. That fact never bothered me. I was closer to Leon than I was to Morgana and he wasn't even a relative.

"Later, I realized I needed control and had overcompensated by cursing you. I could control you because you were an easy target." She looks down. "Harsh, but true. Sorry."

"So, all those times I asked you to lift it...why didn't you, then?" I ask now, thinking I know the answer.

She looks up. "Because it was actually helping you. Okay, so the first few times I refused just out of spite," she admits. I actually laugh at this. "But later, when you started coming around, I decided to let you find your way. You may not have realized it, but you were doing well, most of the time. Elena was a good experience for you. But I knew she was not your soulmate, so I had to allow you to let her go."

"You Saw Guinevere, then?" I ask.

"In a way. I knew someone was coming who would be the one to finally get through your defenses." She looks at Guinevere now, still sitting patiently at my side, her hand resting on Wolfe's coils. "I knew the basic shape of you, Gwen," she chuckles. "I had gotten glimpses. A dark curl of hair, the letter G. Gold and silver."

"I'm sorry, Morgana," I say, suddenly feeling the need to apologize again. "For everything. I was an idiot for most of my life, but… that's done. I'm going to do better. Well, I'm going to _try_ to do better. I can't promise I won't be stupid once or twice…"

She chuckles. "Thank you, Arthur. I'm sorry, too." She reaches her hand across to me and I take it.

"Oh, just hug already," Guinevere says, wiping her face. I think she's crying.

I look at Morgana. "I'm game if you are," I say.

She stands. "Come here, Artie," she says, holding her arms out.

Oh, God, no one has called me "Artie" in years. I forbade it when I turned 10. Nevertheless, I stand and hug my sister for the first time in… _have_ I ever hugged her?

We stand for a few moments, our arms around each other.

"Okay, it's getting awkward now," she mutters into my shoulder, and we both start laughing.

We let go of one another, laughing harder as we separate. Morgana falls into her chair. I turn around and quickly wipe my eyes.

"I saw that," Morgana says.

"You saw nothing," I say, noticing she's doing the same thing. I raise my eyebrow at her.

"Shut up. I need a cupcake…" she sighs, going back to the kitchen to retrieve them.

"That was lovely, Arthur," Guinevere says, kissing my cheek. "I'm glad you two made up."

"Me, too," I say. I really am. I didn't think it would matter that much, but it does.

"You only have one sister," she adds softly, and I know she's thinking about Elyan. I reach over and wipe a tear from her cheek, my fingers lingering a moment on her soft cheek.

"Oh, Love," I say, wrapping my arms around her and she leans against me, resting her head on my shoulder.

Morgana returns with cupcakes on plates. "Your brother died a hero, Gwen," she says quietly, handing her a plate, "and his soul is at peace."

"Thank you," Guinevere says with a soft, watery smile, taking her plate. "Wolfe, excuse me, please." The snake removes his head from her lap so she can set her plate there.

I take my cupcake and Morgana sits.

"Bloody _hell,_ " she exclaims, her mouth full. "These things are fucking amazing."

"I know, right?" Guinevere agrees and glances at me. I'm too busy laughing my arse off.

We're quiet for a bit, enjoying our cupcakes almost reverently, as conversation would take away from being able to fully enjoy them.

"So Morgana, I have to ask," Guinevere says once we've all finished, "how much do you actually, um, observe?"

I'm glad _she_ asked. I was curious about that, myself, but was a little afraid to say so.

Morgana chuckles. "I'm not going to snoop into your lives, just so you know. Obviously if I get a warning about something, I'll tell you, but I'm trusting you to behave yourself now," she says, smirking impishly at me.

"Don't worry," I say.

"I'll try not to," she answers, trying not to smile.

We visit a little longer, talking about less important things. I mainly listen while Guinevere and Morgana discuss Gwen's business to the point where Morgana ponders having something made.

"We should head home," I say. "Thank you for dinner, Morgana, it was very good. And it was nice getting to truly know you as well."

"Yes, I'm glad. Don't tell Uther we're friends now, though," she says.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I promise, chuckling.

We stand and head to the door, Guinevere pausing to bend and bid farewell to Wolfe.

She strokes his head, and he lifts it, so she rubs under his chin as well. Do snakes have chins?

In any case, the snake looks right at me, and appears to be smiling. Do snakes smile?

He certainly looks smug, at the very least.

"Morgana, lovely to see you again," Guinevere stands and hugs Morgana.

"Definitely," Morgana agrees. "Take care of my little brother, now."

"You know I will," she says.

"'Bye, Morgana," I say.

"Behave yourself," she answers, grinning.

"You, too," I shoot back.

Then I hug my sister again.

Guinevere's right: I only have one sister and should remember that.

I should also remember that she's a real person with real feelings and hopes and flaws.

Like me.

Wow.


	67. Day 85

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet the Parents

Holy Cross Cemetery is a lovely, serene place full of trees and flowers and neat rows of headstones.

St. George Cemetery is a sterile, manicured place full of neatly-trimmed hedges and large stone walls intended to keep out riff-raff.

Guinevere's family is buried at Holy Cross. My mother is buried at St. George.

We're visiting both places today. It's nobody's birthday or anniversary. We're going to tell our families we're getting married.

Some people may think it strange that we're going to tell dead people about our engagement. Those people are likely fortunate enough not to have lost anyone dear to them.

Also, I'm not interested in anyone's opinion apart from my Guinevere's. This little outing was her idea, to which I agreed immediately.

We go to St. George first, since that visit will be shorter. We only have to see my mum.

I pull up to the gate and look over at Guinevere. "You ready?" I ask, smiling.

She nods. "Are you?" she returns.

"As I'll ever be," I say.

She knows this isn't exactly my favorite place to go. I reach my hand out the window and punch a code into the numbered keypad.

"Honestly? It's a gated community?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at me, trying to lighten the mood a little.

I chuckle. "I know. But what can I say? I come from a long line of pretentious snobs."

"Does everyone have the same code?" she asks, looking around as I drive to the mausoleum where my mother is. She's not underground. She's in a big wall, stacked like books with a bunch of other Pendragons. It's essentially a filing cabinet for dead people. Her family wasn't exactly thrilled she was being interned here, but Father insisted.

I'm going to be buried wherever Guinevere is. If she gets cremated, I will, too. I'm also hoping we die at the same time, because the thought of living without her is much too painful, and I don't exactly relish the possibility of her being all alone, either.

No. Don't like that at all.

Selfishly, I refuse to entertain the thought of her remarrying after my death. I just cannot deal with that.

"No, each family has their own. So it's not exactly all _that_ secure. You could probably just punch about anything in and get lucky," I say. "Though why anyone would _want_ to break into a cemetery is beyond me…"

"Some people are buried with jewelry and other things that might have value," Guinevere says.

"Ugh," I say, sticking my tongue out. "That's just… no. You don't dig someone up just to get their gold ring. I mean, not only is it disgusting and disrespectful, but the work involved far outweighs the potential reward."

She laughs. "Spoken like a businessman. But you're right. It is pretty stupid. Doesn't mean people don't do it, though."

"True," I say, parking the car.

It's a lovely summer day, not too hot, with just a faint breeze in the air. Guinevere takes a bunch of flowers from the back seat of the car and follows me to the rectangle of marble in the big wall bearing my mother's name.

She's about three rows up, below my grandparents. There's a slab beside hers with my father's name and birthdate on it and a blank space where the date of his death will eventually be engraved.

I've always found that to be somewhat creepy.

Not to mention the fact Mum probably doesn't want him beside her for all eternity. But that's just a guess.

"Um, I don't normally talk… out loud… while I'm here," I tell Guinevere.

"That's all right," she says. "Everyone has different comfort levels."

I reach out and trace the letters of my mother's name with my fingers, feeling the familiar shape of them.

Guinevere waits patiently, holding her flowers, letting me have my moment. My thoughts are largely the same every time.

_Hi, Mum. Wish I could have known you. I wish I could have known you, and… I hope you've become proud of me._

Some new things come to my mind now.

_I'm not cursed anymore. You probably know. If you're really up there, watching over me, you know. I found someone very special, someone who loves me. And I love her. We're going to get married. I never got to know you, but I know you would like her. Everyone does. Even Father._

I chuckle a bit at this. I think she would, too.

_She's here to meet you. Her family is gone, too, and we're going to see them next. Her name is Guinevere, and she's an artist. She's the most wonderful, beautiful person I've ever met, and I'm… heartbroken that the two of you can't really meet. But maybe… if there is an afterlife… you can find her parents and brother and learn all about her._

_She's brought you some flowers._

I step back and reach out with one hand for Guinevere. She's crying.

"That was beautiful, Arthur," she whispers.

Did I say all that out loud?

"Was I talking?" I ask. I really didn't think I was.

She nods, and wipes her eyes with her free hand. "You were. Softly, but you were." She leans up and kisses me, then steps forward.

There's a small vase attached to the stone and Guinevere gently places her flowers in it.

"Hello, Mrs. Pendragon," she says, smiling a little. "I guess that title will soon belong to me as well," she says, looking down at her still-bare finger.

We've got the design almost done, thankfully. I realized it really bothers me that she doesn't have a ring. Could be a possessive male thing borne of my own insecurities and my continued wonder over the fact that I am allowed to be with her forever. I want the world to know she has consented to be mine, that she said, "Yes, I will marry you, Arthur Pendragon."

"I want you to know that… that I love your son very much. And I promise you I will always stay by his side and will always be there to support him. He thinks he needs looking after," she says, smiling and looking sideways at me, "but I think he's doing just fine. You would be proud of him if you were here. He has a beautiful heart, and I am a fortunate woman because he's shared it with me."

Wow.

"I love your son, and I cannot wait to be his wife. Thank you for him." She looks down for a moment at her clasped hands, perhaps saying a small, silent prayer. Then she lifts her head and smiles at me. I hold my arms out and she steps into my embrace.

We stand, holding each other, for a few long moments. I can feel the warmth of her body against mine and the warmth of the sun on my head. It feels perfect.

"I love you," I say, kissing the top of her head. "Thank you."

"I love you, too." She looks up at me and sighs. "I meant all that, you know."

"I know. You wouldn't lie to my mum."

She giggles and steps back. "Would you like another moment?"

"Just one," I say. I step over to the marble slab, kiss my fingers, and press them to her name. I turn back to see Guinevere smiling fondly at me. "Shall we go?"

"All right."

xXx

I pull through the wide-open gates of Holy Cross Cemetery and let Guinevere direct me to where her family is buried. Elyan was placed beside their parents, so all three of them are together.

I bring my gifts out of the back of the car and follow her to the three headstones. I hang back while Guinevere steps forward, kneeling down in the grass.

It feels different here. Warmer. Welcoming. I can feel the tension leaving my body as I watch Guinevere talk.

"Hi," she says casually. I think she visits her family more often than I visit my mum. "Mum, Dad, El, I've brought someone to meet you today. His name is Arthur." She reaches her hand back for me and I step forward, joining her on the ground.

"Um, hello," I say. "Mrs. Leodegrance, Guinevere told me you liked lilacs, but since it's too late for those, I hope these daisies will do. She said you liked those, too." I rise up on my knees and carefully place the bunch of daisies in the small vase attached to her headstone. "Mr. Leodegrance, I brought you some crisps. Guinevere said they were your favorite." I prop the small bag against his headstone, trying not to think about the fact that if raccoons do not eat them, some wandering idiot will help himself.

It's the thought, though.

"Elyan, I understand you had a fondness for apples," I say, placing a shiny green apple on top of his stone. Guinevere told me he liked Granny Smiths, so that's what I brought.

I glance at Guinevere, and she nods, encouraging me to continue.

Okay. I guess I get to tell them.

No. I have a better idea.

"Um, Mr. Leodegrance," I say, directing my attention to the headstone bearing Thomas Leodegrance's name, "as I'm sure you know, I love your daughter very much. She stayed with me through probably the worst time in my life, and… well, when I say it was the _worst_ time, that's not exactly true. It was the best time, too. The two months, nearly three now, that I've been with your daughter have been the best ever. But there was a time when I didn't know if I'd get more than two months with her, and… well, even after I told her this, she stayed and saw it through with me. I don't know what I would have done had she… had we…" I stop. I have to or I'm going to ramble myself into an emotional breakdown. I rake my hand through my hair, closing my eyes for a moment.

Guinevere reaches over and squeezes my hand. I glance over and she's giving me a small, gentle smile, encouraging me. Giving me strength because she knows I'm faltering.

I take a deep breath and clear my throat. "Anyway," I continue, "she stayed. I already knew she was the most wonderful person in the world and I loved her more than anything, more than I thought possible, but when she stayed with me after I told her… what I'm trying to say is I love Guinevere very, very much." I lean over and kiss Guinevere's cheek before continuing. "May I marry your daughter, Mr. Leodegrance? Will you grant us your blessing and make me a very happy man?"

I don't know what I'm expecting for an answer, but the breeze picks up a moment later, blowing the leaves in the trees, drawing our eyes up.

"Look," Guinevere says, pointing. "It's a kestrel."

I look up and see the russet-colored hawk sitting proudly on a high, bare branch, surveying the cemetery from his perch.

"Don't think this is bizarre or anything, but they were Dad's favorite," she whispers, squeezing my hand.

Not bizarre at all. I smile and squeeze her hand back.

The bird turns his head in our direction. Is he looking at us? It feels that way. Then he swoops down into the grass a distance away and we see him rise up into the air with something clutched in his talons. Possibly an unfortunate mouse or vole or something. He lets out a shriek before flying right over our heads and disappearing.

"Was that a sign?" Guinevere asks.

"Maybe. I guess… if we want it to be one, if we're willing to accept it as one, then it is. Hopefully it's a _yes,_ " I say.

"Of course it is," she says. "Like I said, that was Dad's favorite. He used to drive out to the countryside to watch them."

"Either that or I'm the mouse or whatever thing the kestrel is now undoubtedly picking apart with his beak," I say.

"Well, there's a happy thought," she says, poking me. "Now stop. It was a sign, and a positive one."

"Yes," I agree.

"Hey, it could have been worse. It could have been a merlin instead of a kestrel," Guinevere says.

"A what?" I ask.

"There's a type of falcon called a merlin. Didn't you know that?"

Why would I know that? "No, clearly I didn't," I say, pondering the wisdom of teasing a powerful wizard about being named after a bird.

Even if it is a bloody falcon, which is kind of cool.

"Dad knew a lot about birds of prey. Hobby of his," she explains.

Interesting. I nod, turning to look back at the headstones.

This cemetery just _feels_ different than St. George. I honestly think if we were caught kneeling in the grass there, a large security guard would materialize and escort us from the premises.

"Thank you, Mr. Leodegrance," I say.

"He'd want you to call him Tom," Guinevere says.

"Thank you, Tom," I say. "I promise you – I promise _all three_ of you – that I will love and cherish Guinevere for the rest of my life. I've… been through too much with her, too much to ensure we _can_ be together to take her love for granted. Plus she's just an amazing woman, as you know. I don't know how I got to be so fortunate, honestly."

Guinevere leans her head on my shoulder and we sit for a few moments longer.

"I'm ready whenever you are," she says softly.

"All right," I say, and we stand. I hesitate another moment in front of Elyan's grave. "Thanks, mate. I wish I could have met you. It would have been an honor."

I hear Guinevere sniffle and she squeezes my hand.

We walk to the car in a comfortable silence.

"Thank you, Guinevere. That was a brilliant idea," I say, leaning over to kiss her inside the car before driving out of the cemetery. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes, and you're welcome. That was very sweet of you to ask my father's permission," she says. "I think Gwaine's working today, if you want to go to The Rising Sun."

"Sure, why not?" I say, maneuvering my car into the left lane because I'll need to turn on the next block if we're going there. "I know he couldn't _really_ answer me, but it just felt right."

She's quiet for another moment, then says, "I don't think you would have had anything to worry about if he was alive."

"You were close with your father," I say.

"Yes," she answers, looking down at her hands. Then a crafty little smile creeps over her face. "And you know I basically do whatever I want anyway, so…"

I laugh, knowing the truth of that statement all too well, remembering the night of Day 60, when she bullied her way into my condo and just _would not leave._

I will forever be grateful to her for that.

I pull into the parking lot, and as we walk inside, I ask, "So, after lunch and the Food Palace, can we work on our rings?"

"Of course," she says. Then she looks up at me. "It bothers you, doesn't it?"

"What?" I ask, feigning innocence. "Hi, we'd like Gwaine, please," I tell the hostess.

"That I don't have physical evidence of our engagement," she says as we sit.

"Maybe," I say. "Yes," I admit.

"We'll do mine first, then," she laughs. "Hey, Gwaine," she says, lifting her cheek as he bends to kiss it.

"Hello, darlings," he says, giving me a mischievous look.

"If you kiss me, you get no tip," I warn.

He pauses, seeming to mull it over. "Might be worth it," he says. I glare. "Perhaps another time," he laughs. Guinevere is laughing into her hands, bent forward over the table. I start laughing in spite of myself.

"See, this is why I wanted to come here," she finally manages. "I needed a good laugh."

This is what we need right now. Laughter. Release after the heavy emotion of the cemeteries.

I've never laughed more than I have with my Guinevere. And she laughs with such abandon; she doesn't care if people stare at her.

I hope she never loses that.

I hope being with her will help me develop that ability.

She always knows exactly what I need.

She _is_ exactly what I need.

What I'll always need.


	68. Day 98

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daddy Issues

_Dear Arthur,_

_I must admit I was surprised to see you'd written and, in truth, I almost did not read it. I didn't open it for three days. But, on the urging of my father and my husband, Jason, I decided to see what it was you felt you had to say to me._

_I almost didn't believe it. Cursed? Seriously? You expect me to buy that rubbish? Those were my initial reactions._

_But the more I thought about it, the more I looked back on our relationship, it made perfect sense. All the stops and starts and stops again. The times when you would close yourself off from me. From everyone. I may not have said anything, but I noticed._

_Sometimes I wondered if you were a serial killer. Or if you were living some kind of double life, like MI-6 or something, wondering if you'd get a call from M or Q or someone else with a letter for a name and then *poof* disappear. Possibly forever._

_I am sorry you had to deal with being cursed. As you said, your sister was punishing you for your past. I don't know what this "past" entails, nor do I want to know. Apparently, it did have some sort of positive effect, and you claim I helped steer you in the right direction. I'm not sure how I feel about that yet, to be perfectly honest. But thank you for finally telling me._

_Am I hurt that you used me? A little. Logically, I know you essentially had no choice. Logically, I know you were trying to survive the only way you knew how. I understand why you couldn't tell me, but emotionally, it does sting._

_Jason knows all about you. He read your letter. He is thankful that you broke up with me (though you claim you did not want to), because he never would have met me had we been able to stay together. We are very happy, and are expecting our first child early next year._

_You wished me happiness. I am happy. I love my husband and my job, and I love living in America._

_I forgive you, Arthur, and I wish you returned happiness with the woman who helped you lift this curse. I am assuming you have found your true love and that is what has saved you, as this seems the only logical conclusion. She is a lucky woman, and I hope she knows this._

_If you ever come to Kentucky, do look us up._

_With warm regards,_

_Elena Godwin Martinson_

Well, that was unexpected. Kind of. But I'm glad it was a positive reply.

"What does it say, Arthur?" Guinevere asks. She's been waiting patiently while I read. I hand her the letter.

She reads. "Wow. She seems like a really decent girl," she says, setting the letter on the coffee table.

"She was. Is." I sigh. "And it's nice to get a positive response after the other two," I say. Caitlin sent me a three-word reply: "Piss off, tosser." Lisa sent me two and a half pages of verbal abuse. I read every word, and wanted to reply. Guinevere convinced me to let it go because no good would come of it. _Nothing you say will reach her at this point, Arthur. Let it go, Love,_ she had said.

Guinevere nods, squeezing my hand.

"Honestly, I'm glad she understands," I say, leaning back on the couch.

"Well, considering you deal with her father a fair amount…" she starts.

"It's not even that. I'm happy to have gotten her forgiveness. For my own peace of mind. I could deal with Godwin hating me personally as long as he kept our professional relationship, well, professional," I say.

She gives me my smile. That one I like. I've decided it's mine. My smile.

"I'm happy she forgave you, too, Love," she says, snuggling against me. "What time do we need to be at the restaurant?" she asks.

"Ugh," I groan, dropping my head back against the top of the sofa. "Seven. I don't want to go."

I don't. Yes, Father is having us for dinner – out, thank God – to celebrate our engagement, but it's still dinner with _Father._

"I know you don't," Guinevere says, shifting slightly, turning her face to kiss my neck. "But it'll be fine." She kisses me again, closing her lips gently around my Adam's apple. Then she drags her lips down to that soft spot between my collarbones and licks it.

I groan, keeping my head against the top of the couch. She climbs onto my lap, straddling me, and drags just the tip of her tongue up my neck till she reaches my ear.

She bites my earlobe and then sucks on it. "We have three hours before we have to go," she whispers, intentionally staying close enough to brush those lips of hers against my ear.

I'm gone. I flex my hips up against her, my hands clutching her hips for a moment before sliding up her back.

"Mmm, someone has the right idea," she purrs, still doing sinful things to my ear while moving her hand down and pressing it against my groin, encouraging me.

"Bedroom," I croak, my capacity for speech rapidly leaving me.

"Mmm-hmm," she says, not moving from my lap.

Very well.

I wrap my arms around her and stand, walking to the bedroom. She wraps her arms and legs around me and switches to my other ear.

I collapse onto the bed with her on top of me, and I am treated to her laughter in my ear as we land.

I roll us, covering her with my body, making a beeline for her neck, fighting fire with fire. I can find her favorite spot blindfolded and in my sleep now, and I place a soft kiss there before biting lightly, tasting the sweetness of her skin on my tongue.

"Ah," she sighs, her fingers in my hair.

I pull at her tank top, sliding my hands beneath it, working it up and off. It's one of those strange contraptions with a bra built in. I grin at this discovery and drop my head, kissing between her breasts before popping the button on her shorts.

She lifts her hips and I pull her shorts and knickers down at the same time. "Arthur," she says, "you're falling behind, Love."

So I am. She's completely naked and I'm completely dressed. I remedy the situation in seconds and rejoin my (now laughing) Guinevere on the bed.

"Caught up now," I mutter, kissing her, my hand sliding along her waist, moving up to her breast, caressing, teasing her nipple with my thumb.

"Oh, good," she sighs, stretching languidly as I start kissing a path down her body, giving both of her lovely breasts the attention they deserve and dipping my tongue briefly in her bellybutton a few times before I reach my intended destination. I turn my head and lightly nip the inside of her thigh before sliding my tongue into her waiting folds.

"Mmm," she moans, dropping her legs wider for me. I caress her thighs with my hands, circling my tongue a few times before moving lower and thrusting my tongue inside her.

She's so good. So sweet.

I love the little sounds she makes, the little whimpers and sighs I draw from her as I love her this way.

I kiss and suck and lick, slowly driving her to the edge until I feel her fingers grab a handful of my hair.

"Arthur… stop… I want…"

I start to pull away and she presses my head back down.

All right.

"No… too close… stay thereohhh…." Her gasps turn into a moan as she climaxes, her hips bucking a little, her legs clamping together on my head.

I chuckle against her thigh, wiggling my way out from between her thighs. "Oh," she giggles and relaxes her legs, letting me out.

"My turn," I rumble, pausing to kiss her stomach on my way back to her lips.

"You think so?" she asks, clearly teasing me.

"Mmm, I certainly _hope_ so," I say, closing my lips over hers, kissing her deeply. Something inside me shifts and suddenly I'm pouring myself into her, overcome by my love for her.

She moans softly into my mouth, her arms surrounding me, returning my love with equal ardor, and for several long, wonderful moments, we just kiss.

"I love you," I whisper, dropping my head to her shoulder. She squeezes me and I kiss her shoulder a few times.

"I love you, too," she whispers back, kissing my forehead, my cheek. "Make love to me, Arthur."

I lift my head and kiss her softly. "Your wish is my command," I say, nuzzling her nose. "Forever."

I move my hips down and she reaches for me, gently guiding me home. I groan as I slide into her, slowly pushing all the way in.

Home. That's exactly what this feels like.

I start to move and she meets my motions with her hips, her hands on my chest, my shoulders, roving my body.

So good. So sweet.

So wonderful.

I cannot hold on. I move faster, and she stays right with me in every sense, her beautiful body quivering, small gasps falling from her lips.

"Arthur," she whimpers my name, digging her fingernails into my shoulders.

I shatter with her, driving hard and deep, stilling within her as I ride out my release.

"Bloody hell," I finally gasp once my brain starts functioning again. I collapse over her, immediately roll us so she is lying on my chest, and wrap my arms around her.

"Indeed," she agrees, kissing my chest.

"You are completely magnificent, have I told you that?" I ask.

Guinevere looks up at me. "No, I don't believe you have, thank you," she says, smiling. "You're pretty magnificent yourself, there."

"You make me magnificent," I say, enfolding her in my arms.

"You give me far too much credit," she answers.

"Your opinion," I say, sighing.

"Feeling better?" she asks, looking up at me again.

I do. I nod. "You always know just what I need."

xXx

"You look beautiful," I tell Guinevere when she (finally) emerges from the bedroom. She's wearing the lavender dress she bought as a possibility for the awards dinner. Never did return it, apparently, and I'm glad.

"Thank you," she says. "I don't know why I'm nervous."

"Me either. You know Father likes you," I say, taking her no-longer-ringless left hand and kissing it. We finished her engagement ring first, of course, and are well into the wedding band that goes with it. My ring will be done last, based on the design I drew from my memory of that dream.

"Ah, but _you_ don't always know if he likes _you,_ so perhaps that's the reason," she suggests.

She's probably right. Seeing him every day at work is bearable because it's _work._ There's a common purpose there. Seeing him socially is awkward at best, painful at worst. Thankfully, we'll be in a public place. That always makes things go smoother because he behaves better.

So do I.

We head to the restaurant and (thankfully) walk in to find Father has just arrived. At least we won't have to endure a lecture on punctuality. Especially considering punctuality is not a problem for me.

"Hello, Father," I say.

"Ah, Arthur, hello," he says. "Claude was just going to show us to our table. Guinevere, my dear, you look lovely." He leans down and kisses her cheek.

"Thank you," she says.

We follow Claude to the table, in the center of the restaurant, of course, and sit.

"I see you finally have a ring, Guinevere," Uther says, noting her hand and looking pointedly at me.

"Father, we explained that already," I remind him.

"I still think it's bad form to have your fiancée make her own engagement ring," he says. Stubborn arse.

"Mr. Pendragon, it's fine, I promise. It was fun, actually. Arthur helped. And I completely understand his reluctance to buy me a ring made by someone else."

"He helped? How on earth did he help?"

"Well, I had to give him some instruction, obviously, but he was a fast learner," she says, smiling at me.

I liked the blowtorch. It was fun.

"I do like some other jewelers' designs, but Arthur mentioned it might look odd business-wise for me to wear someone else's work," Guinevere adds, trying to appeal to the businessman in my father.

Trying to get him to praise _me_ for once.

"I suppose that's true," he says.

I think that's the best I'm going to get.

"And obviously he bought all the materials," she adds, glancing at me. I just shrug. I'm just not up to trying to prove myself to him anymore.

The older I get, the less his opinion matters, I'm finding. Especially now that I'm a free man.

"Well, I should certainly hope so," Father says haughtily, eyes scanning the menu. He has it committed to memory and always asks for the specials (and usually gets one of those), so I don't know why he bothers.

He sets his menu down. "May I?" he asks, holding his hand out. Guinevere places her left hand in his and he lifts it, inspecting the diamond.

I peruse my menu, looking for something expensive.

"Very nice," Uther declares, releasing Guinevere's hand.

"Thank you," she says softly.

It's more than a "very nice" diamond. It's perfect. I made sure of that. My Guinevere deserves nothing less.

The waiter comes and takes our drink orders. I keep waiting for him to ask my father to stand so he can _literally_ kiss his arse.

I really am trying to be pleasant. I order a Coke. The last thing I want is alcohol right now. Father has a cocktail, of course. Guinevere has a glass of white wine. I know she'll only have one and then keep to her water. She rarely has more than one glass.

Father asks Guinevere about her business, never really having gotten the opportunity to inquire about it. I love listening to her talk. She has a way of telling about her work and its successes without sounding like she's boasting.

Our obsequious waiter returns with our drinks and takes our order. I go for the prime rib. It was either that or lobster. Guinevere orders risotto with scallops and mushrooms. Father orders Chilean Sea Bass. One of the specials.

"Have you picked a date for the wedding?" Father asks.

"Not yet," I say.

"We're going to wait a little while," Guinevere adds. "There's no rush, really."

Father actually looks a bit puzzled by this. I don't really want to explain that I need some time to adjust to living a regular life. Not that marrying Guinevere would be a big adjustment. We're already living together, and it pretty much feels like we're already married. In my heart, we've been permanently joined for a while now.

"I suppose you're already living together and getting all the benefits, so why make the effort?" he says casually.

"Father, it's not like that at all," I snap, shocked that he would be so crass. I look at Guinevere and see that her eyebrows have shot halfway up her forehead. She meets my gaze and her surprise turns to concern.

"Mr. Pendragon, I don't think you quite understand," she says softly.

"Apologies, dear, I don't mean to cast aspersions at you," he says.

"But apparently you have no trouble casting them my way," I mutter.

"Excuse me?" he asks.

"I don't believe I need to repeat myself," I say casually, taking a drink of my soda.

"We're waiting simply because we _want_ to wait," Guinevere explains. "We—"

"Do not need to explain ourselves," I interrupt, talking over her. She reaches under the table and squeezes my knee gently.

"I want the lilacs to be blooming," Guinevere adds helpfully. "They were my mother's favorite."

"Ah. Well. Why didn't you say that in the first place?" Father says now.

Bloody hell.

Our food arrives, which is a welcome distraction. Perhaps if we're stuffing food in our faces we won't feel the need to talk.

I don't want to be here. I will admit this.

"I must say, Guinevere, you really seem to be a positive influence on my son," Father starts in again. "Since he's been with you, he's been flourishing at work. Especially this last month."

"I don't think I can take credit for that, sir," she says, offering me a bite of her risotto. It's really very good.

"Nonsense," he dismisses her dismissal. "He was… treading water before you came along and straightened him out."

Treading water? Is that what he thinks I was doing? I was working my arse off for him, doing just fine. I got that rec center for which he was so quick to snatch the credit, for Pete's sake.

"Straightened me out?" I ask, raising a curious eyebrow. "You make it sound like I was out robbing banks."

"Well, all I know is I've seen a difference, and it started sometime after the awards banquet," he states. Speaking as though he knows what he's talking about.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Pendragon, but I really don't think I have that much influence over how Arthur behaves at work," she tries again, glancing at me.

"Father…"

"Now, don't sell yourself short, my dear," he interrupts me, speaking as though I'd said nothing at all. As if I'm not even here. Typical. "I firmly believe your support and, yes, guidance, has helped Arthur really start to _apply_ himself…"

"Father," I say, more insistent, louder.

"Lower your voice," he hisses.

I roll my eyes. I wasn't even close to shouting. I think a busboy glanced at us as he happened past. No one else even batted an eye. "Just stop," I say, my tone quieter but no less stern. "You're clearly making Guinevere uncomfortable and you're also starting to irritate the bloody hell out of me."

"I beg your pardon," he says, affronted. "I was paying you a compliment, Arthur, the least you could do is accept it graciously."

" _That_ was paying me a compliment?" I ask. I feel Guinevere's hand on my knee under the table again. "By essentially saying I was worthless until I fell in love? By giving all the credit for my recent success to Guinevere?"

I take a drink of my water now, trying to calm down. I don't know why I'm letting him get to me. Wasn't I just congratulating myself on no longer seeking his approval?

He just gets right under my skin. He knows which buttons to push, unfortunately, because he installed the bloody things.

Yes, I've been having a good summer at work. Yes, I started dating Guinevere in April. But he has no way of knowing that one has to do with the other.

Perhaps the most interesting thing is the one job I _didn't_ get: the school addition. It worked out better than I had hoped. While the bid went to some skinny weed called Cedric, a new architect with Aeridian's firm, a couple of people on the committee contacted me later, asking me to design an entire building for a new school that's scheduled to be built in a growing part of town. They said they loved my design, but it didn't match the existing building enough. They want me to take that addition design and use it as a starting point.

Yes, Guinevere did have some influence on my design. But she'll be the first to stand up and firmly state that she is due absolutely no credit for it (something with which I don't completely agree, but that's neither here nor there. She is my muse, if architects have muses).

"I'm simply stating the facts as I see them. It's simple math, Arthur," he says blandly, as if we were discussing the weather.

"Look, Father, I don't know what I need to do to…" I start and stop. No. I will not ask for his approval. I am well over that. Then it hits me: I can't change his mind. It will be a waste of my time to even try. "You know what? Think what you like. I don't care. I'm done here." I set my napkin on the table and stand, holding my hand out for Guinevere. She smiles a small smile at me (is she proud of me?) and takes my hand, standing.

"Arthur! Sit down!" Father's face is turning red in his attempt to not shout at me in the middle of _his_ restaurant. "You're making a spectacle!"

Oh, Father dear, this is no spectacle. Push me one inch further and you'll see what a _real_ spectacle looks like.

"I don't care. I'm not going to sit here and play Happy Family with you. Guinevere and I are leaving. You do what you want," I say.

I walk away, leaving our half-finished meals on the table, Guinevere's hand in mine. A few people stare. I don't give one piece of shit if they do.

In the car, I lean my head back against the headrest for a moment.

Guinevere takes my hand again, squeezing gently.

I sigh.

"Should we go home?" she finally asks.

I open my eyes and look at her. She's so beautiful. Wonderful, kind, and smart, and she loves me. I don't know what I did to deserve her love, but I cling to it like a drowning man clings to a life preserver.

"No. I think I need ice cream. _We_ need ice cream."

A strange look crosses her face, a peculiar combination of confusion, surprise, and amusement. "You want ice cream?" she asks. "Now?"

I lean over and kiss her softly. "Maybe gelato."

xXx

By the time we get home, I'm full of orange-dark chocolate flake gelato and feeling better.

Changing into some comfortable clothes and lying on the couch with Guinevere certainly helps as well.

"I don't get your father," Guinevere says after a while.

"I do, but sometimes I wish I didn't. He shut down emotionally after Mum died, and devoted himself to work. As a result, I'll always be second to the business."

"I used to hope that wasn't true, but the more I see the two of you together…" she says, letting the words trail off.

I give her a gentle squeeze. "He doesn't know how to deal with his feelings. I wonder if he ever did. Would help explain the problems my parents had in their marriage." I sigh. "Sometimes I wonder if they had me to try to salvage their marriage after the affair."

"It sounds like you really believe that, Arthur. That's so sad."

"I know. But it's not unheard of. And it never works."

"The child is always the one that winds up suffering for it," she says quietly.

"In my case, I turned into a womanizing twat. Not only did I not know how to properly treat a lady, I also never learned how to deal with my emotions because he never taught me. I had to learn all that shit myself."

"You're too hard on yourself, Love," she says, turning in my arms to face me. She kisses my chin.

"If it weren't for Leon's parents and Percival's mum… I don't even want to think about where I'd be."

"And Morgana," Guinevere gently points out.

"True, but I was talking about when I was younger. Ha. I never thought I'd be grateful for my sister's curse, but here we are."

My mobile rings on the end table, and Guinevere reaches up to grab it. "It's Uther," she announces.

"Not talking to him yet."

She sets it back on the table, letting it go to Voicemail. "You're going to have to eventually. Monday, at least."

"I know. But I've reached my limit with him today."

She snuggles back into my arms. Then my phone blips, indicating Father has left me a message.

I sigh and stretch up to take the phone. "Do I want to know?"

"Yes, you do. The fact that you reached for your mobile answered that question," she says.

"Not calling him back."

"Of course not."

I bring up the message, putting it on speakerphone.

_"Arthur, I understand why you're not picking up. I was calling to apologize if I offended you this evening. It was not my intention. I think walking out of the restaurant was a bit rash, but if that's what you felt you had to do, then so be it. If I do not hear from you before then, I will see you at work on Monday."_

I erase the message. "Well, that was _almost_ an apology." Guinevere says nothing, but I can tell she's got something to say. "You can say whatever it is you're thinking, because I'm likely thinking the same thing."

"He was calling to apologize 'if' he offended you? Is he serious?" she blurts.

"You caught that, hey?" I ask, setting my mobile to Vibrate and placing it on the table again. "Standard procedure. He's never wrong."

"Of course not, he's a tyrannical dictator, right?" she smirks. I pull her back into my arms.

"Why are we lying on this narrow couch when we could be in our big, cozy bed?" I wonder aloud.

"Why, indeed?" she asks, standing while I turn off the telly.

We reconvene in bed ten minutes later. It's not terribly late, but as it's clear we have no intention of doing anything else tonight, we get ready for bed and slip beneath the covers to ignore the TV in here instead of in the living room.

"At least he made an attempt at an apology, lame though it was," Guinevere says, her head on my shoulder.

I sigh, trailing my fingers up and down her arm. "I never know if he's apologizing as a father who cares about his son or as the king of an empire protecting his legacy."

"That must be difficult," she says, "but for what it's worth, I think you're dealing with it very well. You know not to let him get to you – most of the time – and you haven't tied your worth either personally or professionally to his opinion. That's commendable."

"Thank you," I say, kissing her head. "Sometimes I wish…" I stop. I don't know what I wish anymore.

"What?" she asks.

"I don't know. Sometimes I wish he would find the stone in which he's buried his heart and treat me like a real son. Sometimes I wish I'd moved away years ago – I used to wish this before I met you, obviously – and cut all ties with him. I gave it serious thought when I was in New York. When I wasn't drunk. Or doing… other things."

"You'd really cut all ties? That seems rather drastic," she says.

I must remember my Guinevere has a very different perspective on family than I do. And by "very different perspective" I mean she had one that loved and cared about her. Now that they're gone, she misses them dearly.

"It might seem drastic to _you._ Your family loved you and you experienced their love and knew what it felt like to have their acceptance and support. I don't."

"True," she allows.

"Let me put it this way: what would you prefer, if you were in my shoes? No relationship at all or a relationship based on lies?"

She thinks a moment. "Do you really think your relationship with Uther is based on lies?"

"Perhaps 'lies' is too strong a term. False pretenses, perhaps? Playing at a father-son relationship that feels like it's all for show?"

"I don't know if I can answer that question," she admits. "I can't even imagine such a thing."

"Good. It's not something I would wish on you."

"Are you going to call him back?"

"I have no idea. Don't want to. We'll see how I feel tomorrow."

"Hm," she chuckles. "I'm guessing probably not."

I laugh a little now, too. Then I remember something. "I guess I have to just adopt the same mindset with him that you recommended when I read the letter from Lisa. He's not going to change. Nothing I say or do will make him change. I need to just let it go."

"Yes. I think that's a good idea," she says. "You know what to expect from him, so just roll with that."

"Expect nothing. That way I can be pleasantly surprised when I get _something,_ " I sigh. "Kind of bleak, but it'll do."

"Kind of?" she asks.

"I can't keep hoping for something that's not going to happen. It's too hard." I sigh, and hold her a little tighter. "It just... _hurts_... too much," I add quietly.

Guinevere is silent for a few moments, pondering my words. Then she lifts her head and kisses my cheek softly. "Well, it's a good place to start. Find your own peace first."

Her optimism actually gives me hope. Hope for what, I don't know, but hope. I lean down and kiss her, gathering her into my arms.

"I promise you, Guinevere: I _will_ be a better father than Uther was," I tell her, touching the end of my nose to hers.

"I know you will," she says, smiling at me.

I smile back at her and kiss her softly. "Well, I certainly know what _not_ to do," I say, smirking a little.

She kisses me, and I start to feel better. A lot better. I pull her fully on top of me, losing myself in her again.

It is her own kind of magic, I think. The kind that speaks directly to me, to my heart.

The best kind.


	69. Day 109

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur Gets Sick

Work has been rather interesting over this past week and a half. Not because I've been especially busy or we've gotten any new and exciting contracts, but because I'm seeing my father in a whole new light.

He doesn't get to me anymore. I do my job and I don't worry about his approval. Truly, now. I always thought that I wasn't seeking his approval, but I've realized I still was.

That dinner was an eye-opening experience. I can't change him. I can't expect him to change unless _he_ wants to. And I don't think he wants to.

I think he's noticed the shift in our relationship. I don't feel awkward around him. In fact, I feel _more_ comfortable than I did before, because I'm not constantly worrying about what he's thinking (another thing I did not realize I was doing). I don't think he quite knows what to make of it, either. He's off balance right now.

Leon has noticed the change, too. I told him all about what happened. He was quite surprised, but said he was proud of me for standing up for myself. I think he stopped just short of saying "finally."

I wouldn't have minded if he had. He's had a front-row seat to my relationship with my father since we were boys.

Things with Guinevere could not be better. We've decided to get married in the spring, around the same time we met. She wasn't lying about the lilacs; she really does want them at the wedding. I've already put a bug in Hunith's ear about it, too.

I love living with her. She's everything I've ever wanted and better than I deserve. She argues with me when I comment that she's too good for me. I try to explain it's not because I have a bad self-image (even though I kind of do), it's because she's too wonderful. Then, she argues more.

I can't win. But, I don't want to win. Our relationship is not a competition.

She takes care of me and lets me take care of her.

She doesn't mind when I watch sports.

She loves me.

And I've never eaten so well. This morning, she made breakfast burritos for us. I could have eaten five of them, but controlled myself and had two. Then, she busted me as I was eyeing the last two bites of hers, telling me I reminded her of this dog one of her childhood friends had. Apparently, it would sit and _watch_ while you ate, hoping for a hand-out. If you had any scrap of anything left on your plate and let it _sit_ there untended, it would give you this look as if to say, "Are you going to eat that? Are you going to eat that? Are you going to eat that?"

Then, she popped the rest of her burrito in her mouth, laughing openly at me. I deflated with intentionally-amplified disappointment just so she would laugh all the more.

Because I love it when she laughs, even when it's at me.

I realize I've been sitting at my desk and staring at nothing for probably ten minutes. I blink and slightly shake my head.

Concentrate, Arthur. You've got this school drawing almost done. You're way ahead of schedule on it, but the sooner you finish it, the sooner you can get started on the model, and…

I stretch my neck, turning my head slowly side to side and front to back.

What was I thinking about?

Right. The drawing. The model.

I must have slept in an odd position last night. My neck feels stiff.

I don't think I did, though. Slept the same as always, curled around my Guinevere, happy as can be.

I lean back in my chair. Bugger me, my whole back is achy. I should call Leon and have him come in here and do that thing again. That thing he did to fix my back after I spent the night on Guinevere's sofa.

Wow, that seems like it was 100 years ago.

I think I need to stand up and stretch. Yes, that will help.

No. I don't want to stand up. I glance over at my phone. I was going to call someone. Who was it?

A chill races through me. It's late July; I shouldn't be cold.

I shouldn't be achy.

Whoa. I shouldn't be this tired, either.

I think I'll just put my head down on my desk for a minute.

Just one. Then, back to work.

xXx

"Arthur?"

It's Father. I cannot lift my head off of my desk. "Mmm," I moan in reply. I feel like complete and utter shit. I pry open an eye and catch sight of my watch. My one-minute rest has become 20.

"Are you ill?"

I close my eyes again. "Mmm-hmm."

He actually presses his hand to my forehead. "Yes, I'd say so," he agrees. I hear him sigh. Then, he picks up my mobile. I think.

"Um, hello, Guinevere, this is Uther."

"Yes. Arthur appears to be ill, so I thought I'd better call you. He's face down on his desk, but he's answering my questions, after a fashion, so he's awake. Was he feeling poorly this morning?"

"Hmm. No, I don't suppose you would."

She probably told him she wouldn't have let me come to work if I was like this at home this morning. _I_ wouldn't have let me come to work if I was like this at home this morning.

"No, dear, that's fine, I can have Leon bring him home. I just thought you would want to know."

"Yes, you're welcome. Take care that you don't fall ill as well, now."

Father is seriously in love with Guinevere. Can't say I blame him.

"All right, you, too, dear. Goodbye."

He sets my phone down on my desk. "I'm going to fetch Leon. He'll take you home. Take some Tylenol and go to bed," he says. He pats my back once and disappears.

Is he trying to be fatherly? Now?

Ugh, I don't even have the energy to analyze this shit.

xXx

Leon supports me all the way up to my condo and unlocks my door for me. He even helps me change and get into bed.

"Nice penguins," he says. I'm freezing, so I put on a pair of pajama pants from my ever-growing collection. Penguins were on top.

"I've got Camelot Dragons ones, too," I mutter, pulling a t-shirt over my head. I don't know why I think that'll help my case.

"I'm serious. I like them," Leon clarifies.

"Oh," I mumble. "Conrad's."

"Right. I should get some for Gwaine," he says, actually tucking me in now. "I'll get you some water and Tylenol. Stay awake."

I moan something that I intend to be "thank you," but I think it comes out unintelligible.

"Arthur," Leon nudges me. "Take these," he holds out his hand and presents me with two Tylenol. I swallow them down with the water he's brought me, then collapse back onto my pillow.

"All right, mate, get some sleep and feel better," he says.

"Grng," I answer.

"I'll give Gwen a call and let her know you're home and sleeping," he says.

"Unh."

I hear him leave. Then, I pass out.

When I wake, it's afternoon. I pick up my mobile and squint at it. 2:08. Three text messages.

From Guinevere: _There is soup in the fridge if you need lunch. Call me if you want me to come home. I love you._

From Leon: _Take as much time as you need to get better. I'll keep Uther in line here._

And from Merlin: _I'll be over tonight to check on you. No, Gwen didn't call me._

Of course she didn't. I'm glad he's coming over, though. Beats leaving the house to go to the doctor.

Soup. Do I want soup? I know it's the chicken soup she made the other day. That's lucky, I guess.

I want soup. I do not want to get out of bed. _Call me if you want me to come home,_ Guinevere said.

Hmm.

Somehow, I don't think having her come home to make me soup because I don't want to get out of bed is _quite_ what she had in mind.

I have to pee anyway.

I drag my butt out of bed - oh, not good, head is protesting - and shuffle to the bathroom. I start shivering on the way, so I grab my little-used bathrobe and throw it on, closing it after I pee.

I find some socks and pull them on as well, my head throbbing worse when I bend over.

More Tylenol. Definitely more Tylenol. I grab some and carry them with me to the kitchen, and sit at the table.

I'm exhausted.

Soup. I stand, pull the container from the fridge, and pop it into the microwave. I look longingly at the chair, but I know if I sit again, I won't get back up.

Finally.

I sit and slowly eat my soup, taking my Tylenol along with it. It's really good.

I'm really tired.

xXx

"Arthur? Arthur, love, you're not going to get any better sleeping on the kitchen table." Guinevere's voice brings me back into consciousness some time later.

I lift my head from the table, where it was resting beside my empty soup bowl.

Oh, yes. I remember. I had no energy to return to bed after lunch. Now, I have a stiffer neck than I had before.

"Ow," I say, rubbing my neck. "I feel terrible, Guinevere."

"I know, Darling," she says, brushing my hair away from my forehead so she can kiss it. "Let's get you back to bed."

"Ohhh…" I groan, standing. "I don't even feel good enough to make a saucy remark."

Guinevere leads me to the bedroom, helps me take my robe off, and tucks me back in.

"What time is it?"

"It's 4:30. I came home early. I kept calling and you kept not answering, so I just came home. Well, Sefa kind of kicked me out," she says, sitting on the bed next to me.

"Sorry. I left my phone in here when I went for soup," I say, eyes closed, head on the pillow, hand on Guinevere's leg. "Then, I fell asleep on the table…"

I feel her warm hand cover mine and I smile. "Merlin's coming over later," she tells me.

"I know," I mumble. "Text…"

"He texted me, too. Get some sleep now, Love, that's what you need."

I tighten my fingers on her leg in case she gets any crazy ideas. Like leaving. "I need you," I say.

"I'm staying here, relax," she says. "May I turn on the telly?"

"Mmm-hmm," I nod. She could invite a marching band in here for all I care. As long as she's here.

xXx

I wake up to the piercing blue eyes of Dr. Merlin Emrys, Dragonlord Surgeon, peering at me.

It's a rather unsettling sight, and I jump. "Merlin!"

"Sorry. I was trying not to wake you," he says. "But, since you're awake, can you sit up, please?"

"Maybe," I groan, sitting up. I see Guinevere perched on the edge of the bed, watching, her face full of concern. I give her a weak smile.

"Feeling any better?" she asks.

"Don't know. Hard to tell when one has just woken," I say. I swallow. "Thirsty."

"I'll get you some water," she says, standing.

"Can I have some orange juice? Do we _have_ orange juice?" I ask.

Guinevere looks at Merlin. "If you have some, that will be fine, as long as he's keeping food down."

"I am. I just feel like I've been run over by a lorry," I say.

"Yes, I can see that," Merlin says. He's looking into my eyes, poking my chest, prodding, and thumping.

"Shouldn't you buy me dinner first?" I ask. I must be feeling better if I'm attempting to joke.

"What, I don't get a free grope?" Merlin asks. "I thought we were friends."

Guinevere returns, laughing, having heard our exchange. She passes me my orange juice and Merlin stops poking at me for a moment so I can drink.

"Good," I say. It tastes perfect, cold and refreshing.

Merlin leans back in and places one hand on the center of my chest, the other on my back. He closes his eyes.

His hands are incredibly warm. It's kind of strange.

After a minute, he lifts one hand to my forehead, and closes his eyes again. I look at him. He's wearing a short-sleeved dark blue t-shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops that look like they're about to fall apart. He looks nothing at all like the surgeon/powerful wizard he is. He's thin but has decent muscles, and I can see tattoos on his legs as well. Even a few on his feet.

"How much of you is covered in tattoos, anyway?" I ask.

"Arthur…" Guinevere sighs.

Merlin opens his eyes. "I don't mind. Actually, I wish _more_ people would ask questions, but most are too intimidated. If people would just ask, there wouldn't be so much incorrect information out in the world."

"Good point," I say. "May I lie back down now?"

"Yes," Merlin says.

"So, is it the flu?" Guinevere asks.

"After a fashion," Merlin says. He hasn't answered my question yet, but I'm too tired to press the issue. "I guess we can _call_ it flu, but Arthur's illness is his body reacting to all the stress from the curse."

My eyes open wide. "But, the curse is gone, isn't it?" I ask, my voice sounding a bit frantic. Suddenly, my heart is pounding, my breathing is shallow, and I'm starting to sweat. Is this what a panic attack feels like? I think I'm having a panic attack.

"Yes, Arthur, it's gone. Settle down," Merlin says, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. He must be doing something _extra_ with that touch, because I calm down immediately.

"Thanks… I think," I say. Still getting used to his unusual manner.

"Gwen," Merlin says, looking over at her. She's sitting by my feet with her hand on my ankle. "When you first started your business, when you opened your shop, how stressed were you?"

"Oh, my God, I was… a mess. It was super scary. I mean, I sunk nearly all my money into my shop. If I failed, I would lose everything."

"Right," Merlin nods encouragingly. "How did you feel?"

"Petrified. I didn't sleep very well. Could barely eat, because my stomach was all knotted, and… maybe I was trying to preserve my food for when I was destitute and would be forced to find a job as a checker at Conrad's." She stares in the distance, lost in her memory.

Merlin nods, and I think I'm beginning to understand what he's trying to convey.

Guinevere looks right at Merlin. "I worked myself sick. Literally. By the end of the first month, I was pretty certain I was going to make it, but I felt like…"

"You'd been run over by a lorry," I supply.

"Yes," she answers, nodding slowly. "So… Arthur's illness is just his body's _physical_ reaction to having all the stress of the curse suddenly lifted."

"Essentially, yes," Merlin says.

"So, then I, what? Just wait it out?"

"Pretty much, mate, sorry."

"You can't magic it away?"

"Ah, much like with the curse itself, I cannot intervene," he declares, attempting to sound mystical.

"That's bollocks," I grumble, snuggling deeper into my bed.

"So, technically, you _can,_ but you just _shouldn't,_ " Guinevere says. "Can we call Morgana? They're well on their way to reconciliation, you know."

"Yes, I know," Merlin says.

Of course he does.

"No, I don't want to call Morgana," I say. "I… I think I need to let it run its course."

"Good man," Merlin approves. I guess that was the correct answer. "It won't last more than a week. What day is it today?"

"Wednesday…" Gwen answers incredulously. I'm a bit surprised, myself. He doesn't know what day it is?

"Right. So… you'll probably be back in fighting shape by Sunday. Back to work Monday," he says. "And don't give me that look, I have much more important things to worry about than what bloody day it is."

"Thanks, mate," I say. My eyes are now closed.

"Any time," he says.

He's really a good guy.

"Thank you, Merlin," I hear Guinevere say. I think she kisses his cheek.

"You won't catch this from him, Gwen. So, if you don't mind his sweaty, fever-riddled body pressed up against yours, feel free to sleep here with him," he says, chuckling.

"Hey," I protest weakly. I hear Merlin snort a short laugh.

"Oh, and to answer your question, I'm about 65% covered in tattoos. I have more than any other Druid right now, even more than the Taliesin," he says.

I pry an eye open. "Wow," I say.

"No, you can't see them all," he says, grinning cheekily at me.

"But, you got to grope me," I argue, closing my eyes again. "Don't I get anything?"

Merlin chuckles again, and Guinevere laughs. She's probably shaking her head at us as well.

"Hey," he says. I can sense he's close, so I open my eyes again. He's crouched on the floor beside me, pointing at something on the inside of his forearm. "See this? I made this one after the two of you lifted your curse." I look to where he's pointing, and see a smallish tattoo of a serpentine dragon, curled into the shape of a G. It's about an inch and a half to two inches across, black.

Dragon for Pendragon, G for Guinevere.

"Whoa," I whisper.

Guinevere comes over and looks as well. She smiles, but says nothing, and I think I see her quickly wipe her eyes.

"Each of my tattoos has meaning. Not only was I able to help you both, but I also gained you as friends. That's important to me," he says quietly.

"That's really cool," I say, smiling. "Thanks, mate."

"Get better," he says, placing his hand on my head for just a moment. "I have to go. Freya's calling."

"I didn't hear any… oh. Never mind," Guinevere says, laughing a little.

I hear her showing him out. I can't make out the words, but hear their voices.

For a few minutes, anyway.


	70. Day 111

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Healing

"How are you feeling today?" Guinevere asks. I've just woken up, but am still in bed. She's come through the bedroom to put away some towels. Must be doing laundry.

"A bit better. I think," I say. My voice is hoarse. "Shouldn't you be working?"

"I decided to stay home today and look after you," she says, disappearing into the bathroom. She returns a moment later with a cup of water for me. "It's Friday, so I guess I get a three-day weekend."

"Thank you," I say, sitting up and accepting the cup. She brushes my hair from my forehead and kisses it.

"You don't feel as warm as you did yesterday morning," she declares, resting her cheek on my forehead now.

It strikes me, quite suddenly, that she will be an excellent mother. Of course, I saw this in my dream as well, but it's different experiencing it.

"I think I do feel a bit better than yesterday. Definitely better than Wednesday. I feel more like I've been hit by a car rather than run over by a lorry," I say.

"Well, that's certainly an improvement," she says. "Are you hungry?"

"A little. Maybe some toast. With marmalade, if we have any," I answer, working on standing. I have to pee.

When I exit the bathroom and head to the kitchen, my mobile starts ringing. Father. I trudge back and retrieve the phone from my nightstand.

"Hello," I say.

"Arthur, um, hello… how are you feeling?" he asks. He sounds hesitant. Like he's unaccustomed to asking after the health of another person.

Even his own son.

"A bit better, thanks," I say, sitting on the bed. Standing takes too much energy.

He's quiet for a moment. I don't fill the space. He called me; he must have had a reason.

"May I come over and see you?"

Well, this is unexpected. "Now?"

"Whenever you'd like. I am free now…"

"I just woke up," I say.

"Arthur, it's half ten," he chides.

"Father, I'm ill," I remind him.

"Right. I suppose it's all right, then."

Honestly? "Are you granting me permission?" I ask.

Silence.

Then, he sighs. "I wasn't—"

"I know. Come over at three," I tell him, picking an arbitrary time out of the air, hoping he'll decline because it's before five and he should be working. But, I don't want him for dinner.

"All right," he says.

"You remember where I live?"

"Of course, I do," he says, sounding slightly affronted now.

Well, it's not like he ever comes over here.

I look up and Guinevere is motioning that my toast is ready. "I have to go. See you at three," I say.

"Three o'clock," he confirms. I disconnect.

"Who are we seeing at three?" Guinevere asks.

"Father. He wants to come visit. See how I am. Or see if I'm really sick," I say.

"I don't think he doubts you're actually ill, Darling," she says. "He was the one who found you face-down at your desk, after all."

"Yeah. Old habits die hard, though," I say, shuffling to the kitchen behind her. "For both of us."

"Glad you said it," she chuckles. "That way I didn't have to." She brings me my toast — with marmalade — and a cup of tea.

"Thank you, Love," I say.

xXx

I nap most of the day. Guinevere pushed me into the shower after my meager breakfast. It did feel good. I hadn't showered since Wednesday morning, so her urging me to do so was likely prompted by several factors.

When I came out, she had fresh clothes waiting for me. I chose the shorts over the flannel trousers this time, not feeling as cold as I had been. I made a nest for myself on the couch and alternated between napping and watching telly. All I want to do is sleep.

Guinevere bustled quietly about, refilling my cup, bringing me Tylenol, making sure I was comfortable. She must have been cooking, too, because the house smelled better each time I woke up.

She's been wonderful. I can be a right pain in the arse when I'm not feeling well, and she's taken all my grumblings and childish whining in stride. She even anticipates my needs, which is amazing. She seems to know when I need a bite to eat (since all I've been eating have been bites), when I need medicine, when my cup is empty. She even massaged my neck after lunch because it was stiff.

If Guinevere's been frustrated or irritated with me, she's kept it to herself. I shall have to find some way to make this up to her when I feel better.

She's certainly had to put up with a lot, being with me. More than any woman should, surely.

It's nearly three now, and I peel myself off the couch and head to the loo before Father arrives. I know he'll be here spot on three.

One of the problems with drinking more than I am eating is I have to pee _all the time._ It's getting damned annoying, and I wish I could eat more, but I have no stomach.

I glance at my reflection in the mirror. I am pale, my hair is sticking up on one side, and there are dark shadows beneath my eyes. Oh, well. I suppose I look as good as I feel.

I return to the living room and my couch, sitting up, with my legs stretched across the cushions, pillows propped behind my back. Guinevere comes in, kisses my forehead again, and gives me a little squeeze.

"I love you," I say.

"Love you, too," she answers, kissing my cheek.

As predicted, my father rings before my grandfather clock has finished chiming three.

Guinevere answers, confirming his identity before buzzing him in. A minute later, he knocks, and she greets him. He kisses her cheek. She offers him a beverage. He declines, but compliments her on the wonderful smells coming from the kitchen.

"Thank you, Mr. Pendragon. I'm making more soup for Arthur. And I've just taken a tray of brownies out of the oven."

"Please, dear, call me Uther," he says. I turn my head sharply in their direction, surprised. Too sharply, though, because I get a little dizzy.

I don't know why I'm surprised he's asked her to call him Uther. She's the only person he's seemed to genuinely like in… well, as long as I've known him.

"Forgive me for not standing," I say as they approach. Father sits in the recliner beside the sofa. Guinevere lifts my empty glass from the coffee table and takes it to refill.

"Quite all right, quite all right," he says, fingers tapping idly on the arms of the chair. "Um, how are you? What's actually _wrong_ with you, anyway?"

I could make him a list, starting with "damaged by being raised by a neglectful yet demanding father," but, I am decidedly moving on. Plus, I know he's actually referring to my illness. "Flu," I say. "Merlin — Dr. Emrys — has been."

"Merlin? You've made friends with your fiancée's surgeon?"

"Yes. You know Dr. Emrys?"

"By reputation only. Dr. Gaius speaks very highly of him," he says. Guinevere returns with my orange juice, then disappears into the kitchen again.

I think she's trying to give us space without interfering. I understand this, but part of me wants her here.

I am aware I need to deal with my father on my own, though. So is she; that's why she's making herself scarce.

I _can_ do this on my own. I need to. Even though I occasionally feel anger when I think about his continual failure to recognize me as a person in my own right, I have recently realized I mainly feel sorry for him. He has no idea the opportunities he has missed. The experiences. Those ships have sailed, they are never coming back, and he does not even realize it. It's sad.

And it doesn't really matter anymore.

"So, he came here and made a house call? I didn't realize doctors still did that," he says, leaning back.

"They do if they're also your friend," I say, stretching my back. I'm still quite achy. "He was wearing shorts and flip-flops, so it wasn't really very official."

"Hmm," he says noncommittally. Yet, from his facial expression I can tell I've singlehandedly ratcheted his opinion of Merlin down one peg. Somehow, I don't think Merlin would really care. "And what was his prognosis?"

"He thinks I should be back to work on Monday. Tuesday at the latest," I say. "I shouldn't push it. He said that."

"Fair enough. You're… you're, um, actually ahead of schedule on your projects, so…"

"I usually am," I say.

He meets my gaze, and I hold it. It's difficult because of the fatigue and the heaviness in my eyelids, but I am determined.

"I know you are," he finally admits quietly. "Arthur, I know I'm hard on you. I know… I know you're good at your job."

"Yes, you are, and yes, I am."

He snorts a short, mirthless laugh. "And you're right. It wasn't exactly fair of me to give all the credit to Guinevere for your recent successes. But, you have to admit, your work _has_ shown improvement since you've been with her…"

"Father, look. I've been going through some things in my life, all right? I'm not going to go into detail, but the big picture is I've finally gotten my life straightened out. Has Guinevere helped? Immeasurably. And, yes, I can acknowledge that there is truth to the fact that I've been flourishing since I've been with her. However, is it too much to ask for a word of praise that isn't hedged with a 'but'?"

He stares at me, saying nothing.

"I didn't want to have to tell you this. I've had offers," I quietly inform him. "Other people, _competitors_ of yours, have passed me their cards, making it clear that I can and _should_ call them."

"Who?" he asks, his face stony.

"Robert Aeridian. I think Alator mentioned something once in passing as well, but it's hard to tell with that bloke," I say. "But, Aeridian has made it quite clear he'd be more than happy to offer me a cushy position at his firm."

"Why don't you take him up on it, then?" he asks. There is no bitterness in his voice. He's actually curious.

"Because I'm _your_ son, that's why," I sigh. "I'm a Pendragon, even though sometimes I wish I wasn't." I look away now, unable to bear the weight of his gaze. "I spent most of my life trying to please you. Trying to be what you wanted me to be. Trying to make you proud."

"You—"

"I want to let you know, though, I'm finished with that," I say, cutting off whatever he was going to say. "Even when I thought I wasn't seeking your approval, I still was. No more, Father. I'm done living my professional life for you. It's your business to run as you please, and if you wish to pass it along to me when you retire, fine, but if not, so be it. To be honest, I'm not even sure I want it. Give it to Leon, or that idiot Ranulf, or close the doors when you retire. I'm not worrying about it."

"Arthur, I—"

I look at him again. "Please, just listen now, Father. I'm tired. Tired of being Uther Pendragon's son. I need to be my own man, and I expect you to respect that. I may not always do what _you_ feel is best, but I need to make my own decisions. Find my own way, without worrying about how it's going to reflect on _you._ "

"Perhaps, we better leave this discussion until you are feeling better," he says.

No. I need to get this off my chest now, or I never will.

"I assure you, Father, my position will not change," I answer. "I've given this a lot of thought."

He watches me a moment. I let my head fall against the back of the couch. That took a lot out of me, and now I'm exhausted.

"Arthur, I _am_ proud of you. I'm terrible at showing it, I know, because I don't know how. I have every intention of passing the company on to you when I retire," he says after a moment. I think he was actually waiting to see if I had anything further to say. I don't. "If you want it," he adds.

"Ask me later," I say, biting back a small smile. He chuckles.

"I'll… try to do better," he says. Not an apology for his past behavior, but it's _something._

"Thanks," I say. An alarm goes off and Father starts digging in his pockets for his mobile.

"Oh… I have an appointment at 3:45…" he mutters, trying to figure out how to stop the alarm. I hold my hand out, and he passes me his phone.

"Perhaps you shouldn't employ features you don't know how to use," I say, raising an eyebrow at him as I silence the alarm.

"How did you do that?" he asks. I show him the _Dismiss_ button on the screen. "Right." He stands. I don't.

"I'll, um, see you Monday, then," he says, placing his hand on my shoulder.

I see Guinevere hovering at the edge of the living room, a small paper plate of brownies in her hands, covered in plastic. She just can't help herself. It makes me smile.

"Or Tuesday. I'll let you know," I say.

"All right," he answers, patting my shoulder once. "Guinevere, lovely to see you, as always. I'm certain you are taking very good care of Arthur."

"I try," she says. "Here, please take these with you." She offers him the plate of brownies.

"Oh. Um, thank you," he says, surprised. "I cannot remember the last time I had a brownie."

"Well, then it's been far too long, hasn't it?" she says.

Father clears his throat, unsure how to respond. "Arthur," he calls. "Um, feel better soon," he says.

He's trying. I'll give him that. He looks damned uncomfortable doing it, but he's trying. I honestly wonder how many people he's actually wished well in the past. Somehow, I think it is a rather low number. Which is kind of sad, actually.

"Thanks," I say.

He nods at Guinevere, and she walks him to the door.

"Well, that was more excitement than I needed," I say, closing my eyes and scooting down so I am lying on the couch again.

A moment later, I feel Guinevere's warm, soft body nestle in beside me. "You did well, my love," she says, kissing my cheek. "I know it must have been difficult, but I'm glad you said those things. I think you needed to do so – to be clear about how you view your relationship with him."

"I figured you were listening," I say, smiling but not opening my eyes.

"Of course, I was. You've given him a lot to think about. Though, I noticed he still didn't offer a proper apology."

I sigh. "I'm not going to get one of those," I say. I wrap my arms around her. "It's fine. I didn't expect one, anyway."

"I know," she says softly. "I didn't, either."

We lie together for a few moments. Her mere presence is calming to me. Healing. I sigh again, contentedly this time.

"I pity him," I say, breaking the silence. "Father. He must be miserable."

"Mmm-hmm," she agrees, as if she's been waiting for me to reach this realization.

"He's made his bed and is lying in it, and he knows it, but he doesn't know the way out. I'm not angry with him anymore. I truly pity him."

"Yes. He's a very sad man, actually," she says.

"Don't let me turn out like him," I whisper, squeezing her tightly, finally voicing one of my deepest fears.

" _You_ won't let you turn out like him, Love," she says, kissing my lips now. She hasn't kissed my lips much since I took ill. Merlin assured her I wasn't contagious, but she mainly has been kissing my cheeks and forehead. I can't say I blame her; I'd likely do the same. "But, I promise you, if you start taking on any of his less-than-attractive qualities, I will certainly let you know with all haste."

"I'll hold you to that," I say. I open my eyes again and look down at her. "Can you stay here for a bit, or do you have to go tend your soup?"

"I can stay," she says, cuddling into me.

"Thank you. I need you here right now."

"I know, Love. I know."

I close my eyes.

Of course, she knows. She always knows what I need.

Because what I always need is her.


	71. Day 224

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Percival and Sefa's Wedding

I've never been to a Druid wedding before. It's really quite lovely.

Percival asked me to be his best man shortly after my "flu" was done, and of course, I agreed. I figured it would either be Leon or me, and since Guinevere and I helped bring Percival and Sefa together, I probably just edged him out.

Not that it's a competition or anything.

But, it works out well, because Guinevere is Sefa's maid of honor. Freya and a young woman called Drea are her other bridesmaids. Since Sefa is going to be switching to part time due to Percival's travel schedule , Drea has been working part time for Guinevere. Sefa recommended her. She's a lot like Sefa, actually: quiet, sweet, pretty, and completely devoid of pretense. Drea's also a Druid, but I don't know how developed her magic is. She doesn't talk to me much as of yet.

Leon and Mordred (Sefa's brother) are the other groomsmen. I'm fairly certain Mordred is sweet on Drea. He's not very good at hiding it.

Traditionally (so I'm told), Druid weddings are held outdoors. It's late November, so I was a bit worried about that. We get a lot of cold weather and rain in November. Merlin had assured me I would have nothing to worry about, and he, of course, was right. They "magic" the area to make it a dry and comfortable environment. So, we're in this clearing in the Forest of Essetir, leaves falling all around us, sky grey, but in our little area, it feels like a comfortably warm day in early autumn. Even the leaves are staying out of the protected spot.

It's bloody brilliant.

Guinevere had been gone all day (I suppose doing Maid of Honor stuff), but now that the wedding is about to begin, I finally get to see her. She looks as beautiful as I've seen her in an off-the-shoulder dark purple dress. I love her in these kinds of dresses. She has beautiful shoulders. I've always thought so. I keep kissing them because she won't let me kiss her lips until after the wedding. Stupid lipstick.

We're waiting in the back for things to begin. The Taliesin is officiating (I guess that's standard), and he's standing in the front with Percival, who doesn't look nervous at all. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen him smile so much.

There is no press here, which may account for a tiny bit of Percival's happiness. Apparently, the weather isn't the only thing the Druids can control. I'm pleased for him. No one wants uninvited guests.

Music starts, a song I don't know, and Mordred and Drea start forward up the grassy aisle. Next are Freya and Leon, looking handsome but mismatched due to Leon's height. Freya is about the same size as Guinevere. Leon looks quite dashing, actually. Gwaine must have had a hand in that. Leon never looks shabby, but today he looks extra polished. It smacks of Gwaine's influence. I've been in their bathroom. He can give Guinevere a run for her money with Number of Products.

We're next, and Guinevere takes my arm. I lean down and whisper in her ear, "Next spring, my love." Then, I kiss the edge of her ear.

She grins broadly and we walk slowly up the aisle, grass cool and soft beneath our feet.

Did I mention we are all barefoot? Yeah. No shoes for the wedding party. Something about keeping us closer to the earth. It feels a bit strange, being all dressed up with no shoes.

We separate at the front and I step beside Percival, clapping his shoulder companionably as I pass.

"You're next, mate," he mutters.

"Yeah, I know," I grin.

The music changes and Sefa appears in the back, on Merlin's arm. Her father is obviously not here, so Merlin offered his services. Sefa was floored, still rather in awe of him, but gratefully accepted. Since then, she's gotten to know him and now appears quite at ease.

Sure, he's scary powerful, but he's just a guy. In fact, there are times when I think he prefers to be "just a guy."

This is not one of those times, however. He looks really cool today. He's not wearing a suit; he's got on some sort of traditional garb, in dark blues and purples with silver stuff on the edges. He's carrying this wicked-looking staff thing in the hand not escorting Sefa.

Before the ceremony started, I asked him where his pointy hat was. He told me to shut it and threatened to give me donkey ears.

I don't think he actually would, but it's a remarkably effective threat. Creative, too. Honestly, I think he enjoys it when I tease him. I don't think many people are comfortable enough around him to do so.

So, that just makes me do it _more_ , of course.

Merlin is standing with Sefa at the front now. The Taliesin (his name is actually Caedmon) says a few words, Merlin replies, and gently places her small hand in Percival's much larger one. I see Sefa smiling up at him and I know his face must look very much the same. I know this because Guinevere often gives me the same look. It looks like my special smile, except Sefa is bestowing it on Percival.

Sefa does look very beautiful. She's not overdone with makeup or complicated hairdos or even a very intricate dress (I would have been surprised if she had), but she looks gorgeous. Like, really gorgeous.

Still, my attention drifts just past her to where Guinevere is standing, now holding her flowers as well as Sefa's, since Sefa is holding Percival's hands.

I'm not listening to the ceremony at all. Half the words are in a language I don't understand, anyway. I just watch Guinevere, her hair falling in thick curls around her shoulders, a small necklace resting just above her cleavage, her long black eyelashes fluttering when she catches me watching her.

Whoops.

She smiles, though, and I cannot help but smile back. Then, I wink at her. She presses her lips together to keep from grinning and shyly looks down at her flowers.

I wonder if anyone notices us flirting around the bride and groom. Probably not; they should be watching the ceremony, not us.

"Arthur?" Oh yeah. I've got the rings.

I dig them out of my pocket and place them in Caedmon's palm as I'd been instructed yesterday. They are loosely tied together with some sort of special ribbon. I think it's blessed or made from unicorn hair or something.

Caedmon covers the rings with his other hand and says some sort of blessing over them. When he removes his hand, the ribbon is gone.

I endeavor to pay attention as they say their vows and exchange rings. They've decided to go traditional, nothing fancy, nothing they've written themselves. It doesn't surprise me. Neither Percival nor Sefa are big on public speaking.

I am impressed when they exchange rings, however, because Percival has to speak in the strange Druid tongue, and he does it quite well. I think. When Percival finishes, Caedmon nods approvingly and I can see Merlin smiling from his place off to the side.

Rings in place, Caedmon lifts a long ivy garland thing and winds it around their joined hands. He looks quite serious now.

The Druids take marriage _very_ seriously.

As should we all.

Caedmon's somber expression lifts as he pronounces them Husband and Wife, and Percival leans down to kiss Sefa. He goes for it, too, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her off her feet. Good man. I hear cheers from the crowd, Gwaine's voice rising above the din created by all of the Camelot Dragons. When Percival finally sets Sefa down, they are both blushing but grinning like fools.

We all recess to the back in turn. I see Percival's mum, smiling, but with wet eyes. I blow her a kiss. She waves at me and starts blubbering again. I think it's because she knows I'm the next of her "boys" to officially grow up and get married.

I see several familiar faces. Hunith gives me a friendly wave from her seat. She did the flowers, but would have been here anyway because of Merlin. Leon's parents are here, sitting with a couple I don't recognize but who _must_ be Gwaine's parents. His mother is as pretty as he is.

Father is here, too, seated near the back. He nods at me. I nod back. We've reached an almost-comfortable understanding that culminated at the beginning of this month when he surprised the hell out of everyone and made me a Vice President. Everyone except Guinevere. She said she knew something like that would happen. Oh, and Merlin. He knew.

He's still not a fantastic father. I don't think he ever will be, so I've stopped expecting him to become one. Even so, I'm trying to be a better son.

I see Morgana. She's standing in the very back, talking with Merlin. Guinevere and I have to go to the receiving line, but I am curious as to why she's here. She _has_ known Percival since we were all kids, even if she pretended not to like him (it's impossible not to like Percival). And she's a member of the Magical community, even if she isn't a Druid, so she would be welcome.

To be perfectly honest, anyone can go to a Druid event at any time. They don't ever turn people away.

"Guinevere, Morgana's here," I say, kissing her cheek.

"Really? Where? Oh," she says spotting her. She lifts her hand and waves, smiling.

To my surprise, Morgana turns her head and waves back. She wasn't even really looking in this direction, but she responded. I wave, and she smiles and returns my wave as well.

"I should like to say hello," Guinevere says.

"Good luck with that," I answer. "It looks like she's leaving."

People are coming through the receiving line, shaking our hands or hugging, but I look between them and see Merlin lean down and kiss Morgana's forehead. She nods respectfully to him (which looks completely foreign to my eyes), gives Guinevere and me one last smile, and disappears into the forest.

"Oh," Guinevere says, frowning. "I'll have to call her tomorrow, maybe," she decides.

"You call her?"

"Occasionally," she says. "Oh, hello, Uther." Father has just gotten to us. He hugs Guinevere stiffly, kissing her cheek.

"Hello, dear, you look lovely," he says.

"Thank you."

"Arthur, hello," he says, offering his hand. I shake it. "You look lovely as well," he adds, his lips twitching as he attempts to hold back a smile.

Guinevere bursts out laughing.

"Was that a joke?" I ask, laughing as well. "Did Uther Pendragon just make a _joke?_ " I ask. I'm kind of impressed.

"What? He made a joke and I missed it?" Leon is suddenly there, shaking Father's hand.

"Leon," Father says, nodding at him. "I was accosted by your boyfriend earlier," he says.

"Oh, dear, what did he do?" Leon asks, looking concerned.

"He _hugged_ me," Father says stiffly. I start laughing.

"Father, that's hardly getting 'accosted.' Unless he made a grab."

His eyes widen. "Oh. Well." He looks at Leon. "Does he do things like that?"

Leon laughs. "He had better not. Sorry if it put you off. He's a hugger." He shrugs.

"I suppose it could have been worse," Father says.

"Yeah, he could have planted a big, wet kiss on you," I point out.

He looks at me. "Quite." He clears his throat. "Well, I'm off. The line is moving around me already anyway. See you Monday."

I nod. "Thanks for coming," I say. I push away my reflex thought, the one that is saying, _Of course he came. It Would Not Do if Uther Pendragon didn't make an appearance at a wedding in which his son is the best man._ It is not for me to judge why he does anything. I have to release him, just as he does me.

"You're not staying for the reception?" Guinevere asks.

"No, no, they just depress me," he admits, quietly enough that only she and I hear. He gives her a sad smile and moves on, greeting the rest of the wedding party politely before walking to his car.

Wow. My father's a sad guy. I knew this, but for him to actually _allow_ it to show, to _admit_ it…

"Arthur?" Guinevere prompts, poking my shoulder.

"Oh. Hello, Mrs. Henderson," I say, just before Percival's mum throws her arms around my neck and hugs me so tight I'm a little afraid I'm going to lose consciousness.

xXx

The reception is in another magically-heated clearing, and it's not all that different from any other wedding reception. Food. Dancing. Bouquet and garter toss (Freya caught the bouquet and Gwaine caught the garter).

The wedding party is allowed to put shoes on, if we so desire. I brought my flip-flops, clinging to one last chance to wear them. Guinevere stays barefoot, but has a pair of shoes in the car.

Mrs. Henderson had to have a picture taken of Percival, Leon, and myself together, "all dressed up." She fusses over Sefa like she was her own daughter, which is kind of nice, what with Sefa's mum being dead.

Merlin and Caedmon have hung around (I suspect Merlin is still here because of Freya), but they keep to the edges of the party. Freya drags Merlin to the dance floor a few times, and Guinevere even gets a dance out of him. Only slow dances, though. He flat out refused to set foot on the floor for anything fast.

Somehow, I think he was doing us all a favor.

I'm not much for fast dancing, either, but I _love_ slow dancing with my Guinevere. I love how she rests her head on my chest, her eyes closed, trusting me to keep her safe and upright.

Besides the one she shared with Merlin, I dance every slow dance with her. Because I want to and not at all due to the fact that half of Percival's jousting team has been checking her out all evening. Really not because of that at all.

Okay, perhaps a little that.

"You look very beautiful tonight," I tell her for the thousandth time.

"Thank you," she answers, looking up at me. I lean down and kiss her. I can now, since her lipstick is long gone.

"This was a nice day," she says. "Never been to a Druid wedding."

"Me neither," I says. "I kind of want one, now."

She laughs. "It was pretty cool, yes, but we're both C of E, so…"

"Yeah, probably should do it the regular old 'non-magic' way."

She returns her head to my chest for a moment, then lifts it again. "Speaking of which, did Leon tell you?"

"Did Leon tell me what?"

"He and Gwaine are getting married. Gwaine told me. Swore me to secrecy, but I figured Leon would have told you, so…"

What? Going to kill him.

"No, he bloody well didn't! When did this happen?"

"Last week, I guess. You know it's going to be legal for them next spring and all, so they're going to go for it."

"Hmm?" I'm busy glaring at Leon, who has the audacity to give me an innocent look. "Oh, right. Yeah. Gay marriage legal. I'm going to go yell at Leon after this dance," I grumble, pouting.

"No, don't, I'll get in trouble!" she exclaims, laughing and tightening her arms around me. "And so will Gwaine!"

"But…"

"He'll tell you, don't worry, Love. I'm sure you'll be the first one he'll tell," she says, reaching up and touching my cheek.

"You're right, I'll wait till he tells me," I say, sighing. "I'm happy for them, really, I am. As long as they don't take our date."

She laughs again. "They won't. I already reminded Gwaine," she admits.

I kiss her once more. "Of course, you did."

The song ends, and we leave the dance floor. I look at my watch. It's past eleven, and I'm a little tired. I must be getting old.

Either that or I really want to go home and be alone with Guinevere.

I pull her into my arms and nuzzle her neck. "Let's go home," I say.

"We should stay a bit longer," she argues weakly. I can tell she really wants to go as well.

"No one will mind. They won't even miss us," I mutter, kissing her neck, finding that favorite spot of hers.

"Mmm, no fair," she says, melting against me.

"I want to take you home," I say, kissing her ear. "I want to take you home and…"

"Practice for _our_ wedding night?" she asks, kissing me. I can feel her lips smiling against mine.

"Mmm-hmm."

"Okay," she says.

We say our goodbyes, which takes another half an hour. It's nearly midnight by the time we get into my car.

I reach across and stroke her cheek, lightly rubbing her lower lip with my thumb.

"I love you so much, Guinevere," I say.

She kisses the pad of my thumb. "I know. I love you so much, too, Arthur."

I take a moment to gaze at her beautiful face and silently say yet another prayer of thanks because we found one another.

She stayed with me.

I breathe a sigh of gratitude and start the car.


	72. Day 256

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guinevere's Birthday

Bora Bora is bloody amazing. We got one of those rooms located over the water, like Guinevere wanted. They call them overwater villas. There are strategically-placed windows in the floor so we can see the ocean beneath us. Each villa has its own pontoon boat, too.

It is easily the coolest place I have ever been.

Of course, Guinevere's presence may have something to do with it.

Of course, it didn't hurt that I totally splurged as well. We flew first class. Sprung for the overwater villa (they have regular rooms as well, but who the hell would want one of those?). And I sweet-talked (and passed a few bills to) the desk clerk into making sure our villa had no one next to us. We're actually on the end, furthest out over the ocean. It's a bit of a walk, but we have almost total privacy.

We _have_ left the room. We've snorkeled. Took a bus tour. Guinevere shopped in the marketplace. The locals were almost literally falling all over themselves in their efforts to get her to buy their wares. One man even gave her a flower for her hair, free of charge, hoping she'd stay and look at his stone carvings. She did. I bought one.

She really looks quite fetching in a sarong.

We had a couples' massage in our villa, which was wonderful. Guinevere also talked me into getting a pedicure with her. That wasn't bad, either.

Of course, she probably could convince me to have my hair braided if she set her mind to it.

It feels like a honeymoon, actually. In fact, I've lost count of the number of people asking if we are on our honeymoon.

Which makes me wonder how I'm going to outdo this trip when we _do_ go on our honeymoon. I wonder if it would be a cop-out to just come back here.

I'll have to ask her what she wants. Later.

Right now, I have plans.

Today is not a day for exploring. Today is Guinevere's birthday. As usual, she woke before I did, and is in the shower while I lie in bed, listening to the rain outside. It's been warm, but apparently, December is a very rainy month in Bora Bora.

But, that's all right. The rain will not dampen my plans today.

Guinevere comes out of the bathroom, wrapped in a plush robe, drying her hair with a towel. "Hey," she says, smiling at me. "You're awake."

"I am," I say. "Happy birthday, Love."

"Thank you," she answers, sitting on the edge of the bed beside me. I pull her down and kiss her.

"I need to brush my teeth," I say after giving her a small, closed-mouthed kiss. She giggles and I slide out of bed, padding naked across the floor to the bathroom. Before I duck inside to pee and brush, I look back at her. "Don't even think about getting dressed."

She laughs and throws the towel with which she was drying her hair at me. I catch it and take it into the bathroom.

When I come back out, she's sitting on the bed, still wearing her robe, hair braided.

She knows what I'm up to, I think.

"So, Naked Day isn't an _annual_ holiday, then?" she asks when I plop onto the bed and set about removing her robe.

"Ah, that's the beauty of Naked Day," I say, kissing her shoulder as I throw the robe across the bedroom in the general direction of the bathroom. "Anyone can declare Naked Day at any time. No act of Parliament required." I am trailing kisses to her neck, my hand sliding across her stomach.

"But, it's already my birthday," she says, her voice breathy. Her hand is on my thigh and creeping higher.

I lift my head. "It can be two things," I say. Then, I capture her laughing lips with mine, leaning her back on the pillows, still rumpled from last night.

xXx

"I want to give you your birthday present," I say, nuzzling her hair. She's spooned in front, her delectable backside nestled against me. We had lunch (room service, so I had to throw on a robe) a short time ago. It's still raining out. Occasionally, there's a distant rumble of thunder.

"Hmm?" Guinevere asks sleepily. Whoops. I didn't realize she was dozing. "Isn't this trip my gift?" She turns towards me.

"Sorry, Love, I didn't realize you were sleeping," I say, kissing her.

"Not quite," she says.

"And no, this trip is not your birthday gift. It's… our… celebration for being able to be together. Or something. Engagement present?" I haltingly answer. Basically, we wanted to come here, so we did.

She laughs. "Yes, it's our reward for lifting your curse," she nods, remembering. "So… you have something for me?"

"Oh, I've got something for you, all right," I say, waggling my eyebrows and pulling her hips towards mine. "But first, your birthday gift."

She laughs as I roll away and dig into one of the dresser drawers. When I return to the bed, she's sitting up, the sheet tucked under her arms.

I pass her a small, wrapped box, and she raises an eyebrow at me. She knows I'm hesitant to buy jewelry for her, but this looks suspiciously like jewelry.

Because it is.

She unwraps it and opens the box. Then, she laughs. It's not an unkind or mocking laugh; it's a laugh of surprise and delight.

I may have purchased one of her creations and given it to her. Sefa helped.

"Arthur, this is…" she says, smiling as she lifts it out of the box.

"One of yours, yes. Sefa helped, but I chose it." I look at her. She looks pleased, but I have to ask. "Is this weird?"

She looks up at me. "I don't think there's a precedent for this kind of thing, so I'm going to go with 'no.' It's sweet. Unconventional, yes, but not weird."

It's a locket, but it's not heart-shaped or oval, like most lockets. It's rectangular, but with angled corners. So, kind of octagonal. It's white gold with edges and an ivy pattern across the front in yellow gold.

"Open it," I prompt. "I made customizations."

"Did you, now?" she asks, opening the locket easily. Of course, she made it. Sefa had to show me how to open it, and I still struggled. I think my fingers are too big.

"Oh…" she gasps, smiling when she sees a small version of the picture I took of us at the concert tucked neatly into one half. Her smile turns wistful when she looks inside the other half and sees the words "Wherever you are" inscribed. "Arthur, it's wonderful. Beyond wonderful," she says, leaning over and throwing her arms around me. She hugs me tightly, kissing my cheek, my ear, my lips, my neck. I wrap my arms around her, holding her as she covers me with kisses.

I want to take this moment, put it in a bottle, and keep it forever.

Wait, I don't have to. I get to keep _Guinevere_ forever.

Sometimes, I forget. However, those times are getting fewer and farther between.

She releases me and returns to her place beside me, looking at the inside of the locket again. "How did you get the words engraved?" she asks.

I smile. "Merlin," I answer, shrugging. It was the only way I could think to do it without wrecking the piece. Thankfully, he was quite amenable.

"Of course," she smiles, running her fingers over it. "Thank you, Arthur. I love it. You took something I created and made it better."

"I'm glad you like it. Sefa was helpful, but wouldn't tell me which one was your favorite. She insisted I choose by myself."

"You did well," she says, smiling slyly.

"Is this your favorite one?" I ask, hopefully.

"It is now," she answers, placing it carefully back in the box. I didn't expect her to put it on immediately. Wouldn't want it to get broken or lost.

Plus, it might violate the rules of Naked Day.

Guinevere scoots close to me. "I love you, Arthur," she whispers, kissing me softly.

"Mmm, I love you, too, Guinevere," I mutter against her lips, leaning her back on the bed again, ready for round two.

"Can I give you your Christmas present?" she asks, pushing lightly on my shoulders.

"What? It's not Christmas for two more days," I say, furrowing my brows.

"Please, Arthur? It's killing me. I want to give it to you now." She pauses a moment. "Your _Christmas present,_ I mean," she adds before I can make a lewd comment.

"All right," I say, moving to the side so she can slip out of bed to retrieve my gift.

I'm very intrigued.

She returns a moment later with a wrapped package, about half the size of a shoebox.

I grin stupidly at her as she hands me my gift. "I don't think I've ever opened a Christmas present with no clothes on," I say.

"Neither have I. Or a birthday present."

"Birthday present in your birthday suit." God, I'm such a dork sometimes.

She laughs. "Oh, my God, Arthur…"

"I know, it's stupid," I laugh.

"Open, open," she prompts, poking me with her toe. I tear into it, and she chuckles at me.

I open the box and lift something heavy and silver out.

Oh, wow.

This is unbelievable.

"Is this…?" I ask, hardly able to believe it.

I know what it is, but I can't believe she made this for me.

"Your building. The rec center in miniature, cast in silver," she says, nodding. Her hands are clasped in front of her mouth, excited and a little anxious. "Do you like it?"

"Guinevere, this is unbelievable. It's _amazing._ I love it. How did you even…?"

"You had your helper, I had mine. Leon is a surprisingly crafty little elf," she giggles.

I turn it around and around in my hands. It's small enough that it can rest on my palm if I hold it flat, but large enough that it is easily recognizable as being my building.

"It's a bit fancy for a paperweight, but I had fun making it," she says, shrugging.

I cradle my miniature building in my hands and clutch it to my chest, horrified. "A _paperweight?_ Oh, no, no, no… This is not a bloody paperweight. This beautiful sculpture is going on a shelf of its very own with a light and a little glass dome over it. An alarm will go off if someone lifts the dome."

She laughs again. "Arthur, I think you're being a trifle dramatic."

"I don't. This is, without question, the coolest thing anyone's ever given to me. Not to mention the most thoughtful, because you _made_ it. For _me._ " I can't stop looking at it.

She made this for me.

I set it back in its box and set the box on the nightstand. I gather her into my arms and kiss her, showing her how much I love my gift because I don't have the words.

"Mmm, you really… like your gift… don't you?" she asks between kisses.

"Yeah," I grunt, latching onto her neck, sucking and licking her skin until she gasps.

"Arthur…" Her fingers slide into my hair.

I lift my head and kiss her lips. "I don't have your Christmas gift here," I say, kissing her again. "We have to get it at home." My hand covers her breast and she arches into it reflexively.

She takes my face between her hands and lifts my head. "What?"

"Hmm? Oh. Your Christmas gift is something you'll have to choose." I think I'm going to have to tell her what it is now.

I suddenly realize I am completely and utterly unable to keep anything from this woman. That's a good thing, but it's bollocks when it comes to gift-giving.

In hindsight, I'm actually amazed I was able to keep the locket under wraps. I've had it for three weeks, because I had to act when Guinevere wasn't in the shop. She had taken Drea to London for the day last month to pick out some supplies from a specialty place, so I bought it then. Paid cash, even, so there would be no sales record with my name on it.

She pushes me and I move so she can sit up. "Okay, now you need to explain," she says.

I kiss her shoulder. "You said you wanted a dog, right?" I ask.

She blinks. "You want to get a dog?"

"The thought has crossed my mind once or twice, yes." Once or twice since she mentioned she'd like one someday, that is. "So… when we go home we can go to a pet store, and…"

"No pet store," she interrupts. "Shelter. We should get a rescue dog, not some potentially inbred puppy mill one."

Good point. "Whatever you'd like," I say, kissing her shoulder again.

"I assume dogs are allowed at the condo?"

"Yep." I kiss her neck. "I checked. Also, there's an old lady with a poodle on the first floor."

She hugs me suddenly, throwing me off balance. I laugh as we fall back. "Thank you, Arthur. I would love a dog," she says.

"I can see that," I chuckle. She's lying on top of me, looking down at me, her eyes twinkling with mirth. "You are so beautiful," I say, no longer laughing. She lowers her head and kisses me.

I roll us so she is on her back beneath me, releasing her lips to kiss down her neck to her breasts. Her fingers lightly caress my skin, barely touching, sending a shiver through me. She giggles softly at my reaction, and I suck her nipple into my mouth, turning her giggle into a gasp.

"Arthur," she breathes, moving her hand down to grasp my shaft, stroking me slowly as I lavish attention on her breasts.

I groan. Her hand feels so good. We've been lovers for so long now she knows exactly what I like.

Fortunately, I also know exactly what she likes. I feather kisses across her stomach, moving lower. She releases me when she cannot reach anymore and automatically parts her legs as I settle between her thighs.

"Oh…" she gasps as I flick my tongue out to taste her. "I… I was going to do… you…" she protests feebly.

I lift my head. "You're the birthday girl," I say, diving back in and circling my tongue around her nub.

She cries out and clutches my hair. That means I'm doing it right.

I run my hands up and down her thighs, licking and suckling her until she gasps my name and bucks her hips, climaxing beautifully. I kiss her softly and untangle myself from her legs. I turn her on her side and spoon behind her.

"Arthur?" she asks, turning her head to look over her shoulder at me.

"Don't worry, Love, I'm not done with you yet," I say, kissing her. I wrap my arms around her and hold her tight against me, kissing her neck. She reaches up and caresses my ear, stroking the outer shell and pinching my earlobe.

"Mmm," I murmur against her skin, skimming my hand down her body. I take her top leg and lift it.

"Oh," she says, bending her knee and hooking it behind my legs, understanding my intent. She reaches down and guides me into her, leaning slightly forward.

"Ooo," I groan, flexing my hips into her as she pushes back against me. I kiss her shoulder blade and cup her breast in my hand, rubbing her nipple with my thumb. My other hand is trapped beneath her neck, my fingers grasping at her braid.

I keep moving, pushing faster, more urgently as the sensations build. I move my hand from her breast to between her thighs, where I start rubbing small circles again, bringing her with me.

Somehow, she nabs one of my fingers with her teeth and starts sucking on it, making little noises in her throat. She even bites it lightly.

I didn't realize my fingers were so sensitive. Wow. She needs to stop or I'm…

"Oh…" I groan and surge into her, tumbling over the edge. My fingers falter and I exhale her name.

"Arthur," she whimpers breathily, releasing my finger, and my fingers start moving again, even though I haven't recovered from my own release.

"Mmm… oh…" she gasps, reaching behind to clutch my bum, holding me in place as she starts to quiver and squirm.

"Oh! Ooo…" she cries out, then sighs, her nails digging into me as I feel her body tighten and pulse around me. I pepper kisses on her shoulders and neck.

She shifts gently, turning to face me. I kiss her lips as soon as I can.

"That was fun," she says, smiling.

"Yeah," I agree. I wrap my arms around her, holding her close.

This is my favorite thing ever, I think. It's not making love to Guinevere (though that is a very close second), it's holding her body to mine immediately after, when we're both completely relaxed and warm, our heartbeats slowing back to normal.

I probably like it so much because I never thought I would be able to experience such a thing.

"Arthur," she murmurs, kissing my collarbone. That's my cue to release her so she can go do her little tidying-up thing. I roll over and bury my nose in her pillow. It doesn't smell as much like her as her own pillow at home, but it'll do.

"Arthur, really, I was gone a minute," she gently chides when she returns.

Busted.

I don't care.

I can hear the smile in her voice, though.

"Doesn't mean I can't give your pillow a cuddle for a minute," I say, rolling over to my own pillow.

"Silly," she chuckles, tucking herself into my side. "We should get room service again for dinner. In order to keep Naked Day-compliant, of course."

"Of course," I say, laughing.

xXx

"Guinevere," I whisper, kissing her shoulder, then neck, then cheek. "Guinevere, it's stopped raining."

We had an amazingly lazy day; most of it was spent in bed, of course. We did watch some bizarre local television. A lot of it was in French. Guinevere speaks French (something I learned after we booked this trip), and she translated for me as best she could.

But now, I've woken. The rain has stopped, and there's a beautiful, bright moon outside.

"What time is it?" she asks sleepily.

"Around midnight. Come on," I tug her shoulder.

"Where are we going? Arthur…"

"We're going swimming."

"Now?"

"We can't exactly skinny dip during the day, can we?" I slide out of bed and pull Guinevere to her feet, kissing her.

"Is it safe? You know, fish and things?" she asks.

"We'll be fine," I say. The water is very shallow here and we've only occasionally seen very small, harmless fish. I think the local fauna have learned to stay away from this area.

I peek out the door and look around. No one's about, so we creep out, clutching our towels around us, and tiptoe to the end of our dock.

I don't know why we're tiptoeing; there's no one out here but us.

I drop my towel and jump into the water. It's surprisingly warm. Thankfully. I hold my hands up. "Come on…" I cajole.

She bites her lower lip, drops her towel, gives me exactly one second to admire her in the moonlight, and jumps in beside me. I immediately pull her into my arms.

It's only about four feet deep here, so we are both able to stand quite easily. We've been swimming here, in swimsuits, during the day, too, so we knew what to expect.

Guinevere has her hair pinned up to keep it dry, but, as always, a few disobedient tendrils have slipped out and are brushing her neck.

I wind one around my finger and kiss her lips. "Sorry about waking you," I say.

"No, you're not," she says, wrapping her arms around my neck. I move my hands down and lift her, encouraging her to wrap her legs around me as well. We kiss in the moonlight, the warm ocean lapping at our bodies.

"Not really, no," I admit, grinning at her. "But we did nap a lot today, so, no harm done, right?"

"I suppose not," she says, leaning her head back to look at the sky. "Lots of stars."

I look up. "It doesn't look the same. Different hemisphere, you know," I say.

"Mmm-hmm," she agrees, leaning her head on my shoulder.

I hop around in the water a bit, that slow-motion, moon-man hop one does in chest-deep water because it's difficult to stand still, and my foot lands on something flat and hard.

"Hang on," I say, disentangling myself from her a moment.

"What is it?" she asks.

"I stepped on something."

"Did you hurt yourself?"

"No, nothing like that." I manage to worm my toes around the thing and reach down and grab it with my fingers. "Ah." It's a sand dollar shell, and it's whole. Perfect. "Here," I say, handing it to Guinevere.

She smiles and takes it, running her hand over it. "It's not often you find a whole one."

"I know," I nod. I like that she likes it.

"Do you know if you break one open, there are birds inside?" she asks.

"Not real birds," I say, chuckling. "But, yes, I did know that. Little things that look like birds."

"I always thought that was neat. A little unexpected surprise inside. Something beautiful, but hidden, only to be exposed by breaking the hard, exterior shell." She grins up at me. "Sounds like someone I know."

"I suppose we did have to break my hard outer shell," I chuckle.

"In a good way, my love," she traces her finger over the top of the sand dollar once more, then kisses me sweetly.

"I know," I whisper against her lips.

Guinevere smiles up at me, then bobs over to the dock and places the shell there. "Souvenir," she states.

When she returns, she clings to my back, piggy-back style, so I swim a little, giving her a ride.

She's gone a little quiet, and I swim back to the relative seclusion of our dock. "Something on your mind, Love?" I ask.

"I was just remembering," she says, detaching herself from my back, "my first birthday without any family left… after Elyan died… I was with Lance." She frowns.

I have a bad feeling about this.

"He forgot my birthday."

Yep.

"That's horrible. Really. I'm so sorry, Guinevere," I say, pulling her into my arms again.

Mental note: never, ever forget Guinevere's birthday. Ever.

"Thank you. It was so… disappointing, especially _that_ year. I was all alone. Sefa was lovely, of course, and I was looking forward to having a nice dinner with Lance, wondering… well, one never wants to admit one is hoping for a little giftie, but I was. I wasn't looking for a ring or anything, I knew that much, but, I don't know, a stuffed animal? Flowers? Even a gift card to Conrad's would have been fine."

I smile. "Of course you were hoping for a gift. There's nothing wrong with admitting that. It was your bloody birthday and he was your bloody boyfriend."

"I know, but we're so conditioned to think it makes us look… greedy. Superficial."

"Oh, who the hell cares? Everyone likes getting presents," I say, smiling. "I love presents."

She laughs, loudly, and then we both look around to make sure no one pokes his head out to yell at us for being noisy.

"So, what did you do?" I ask.

"What _could_ I do? I sure as hell wasn't going to remind him. He showed up at my flat in jeans and a ratty old jumper with a bag of fish and chips."

"Not exactly a nice birthday dinner," I say.

"It wasn't even Gilli's," she moans dramatically.

"Heresy. Wait, don't tell me it was Captain Salty's…" She pointedly raises her eyebrows at me. "Oh, that's it, I'm going to have to kill him now." Everyone in Camelot knows that Gilli's fish is far superior to Captain Salty's, if for no other reason than Gilli is a local bloke and Captain's is a chain.

"Yeah. So. He brings the vile food, plops his arse on my couch and proceeds to watch footy and basically ignore me. Then, he was surprised when I told him to go home instead of letting him stay over." She's found a piece of seaweed and is twirling it around her fingers.

"You should have turned him away as soon as he turned up with that food," I say. "Wanker."

She laughs again, not as loudly this time, and I pull her back into my arms. She drops her seaweed and hangs onto my shoulders again.

"Sorry, I don't know why I thought of that," she apologizes.

"Don't worry about it. I like hearing things about your life before I imposed myself on it." I grin at her.

"I guess I was thinking how different _this_ birthday was from _that_ one." She gives me my special smile, and it warms my insides. "I love you, Arthur. Thank you for bringing me here," she says, kissing me. She leans her head on my shoulder.

"I love you, too, Guinevere. So, so much." I can never adequately express how much I love this woman. How grateful I am she hung in there with me.

All I can do is show her as best I can for the rest of our lives.

I squeeze her tightly, bending my head to kiss her neck. She lifts her head from my shoulder and kisses me deeply. We lose ourselves in one another for a few minutes, letting the warm Pacific breeze caress our skin.

"Thank you for making this the best birthday ever," she whispers against my lips, her legs wrapped around my waist as I stand in the warm ocean with her in my arms.

"You're very welcome, my love," I say. "Shall we go back inside?"

"Yes," she nods, and we climb the ladder up to the dock.

Dried off, back in bed, we simply wrap ourselves around one another, listening to the water lapping against the legs of the dock and the pontoon boat outside our open windows.

It's immensely satisfying and unbelievably relaxing.

Wonderful.

This is the happiest I've ever been.

It's certainly happier than I thought I'd ever be.

I could stay right here forever.

With my Guinevere.


	73. Day 365

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is Good

Today is Day 365. I think I can probably stop counting days now. Honestly, I don't really know why I kept going past Day 60. Habit, I guess. Perhaps, in the back of my mind, I'm still afraid Guinevere's going to leave or I'm going to wake up from the best dream ever,slammed back into my old life.

That's not going to happen. _This_ is real. _This_ is my life now.

And it's brilliant. I feel so fortunate to be able to have this kind of happiness. I must always remember to never take it for granted.

Tomorrow, April 12, is the anniversary of the day I met Guinevere. Our Day One. I remember it like it was yesterday, even though it seems so long ago. Nearly a lifetime.

In my mind it's a much more important day than my birthday, which was four days ago. Guinevere got me an awesome gift: a weekend at Fantasy Jousting Camp. Leon, Gwaine, and Merlin came with. Percival stopped in, too, but he obviously could not participate.

Mostly, he heckled. And laughed at us.

To be fair, he did sign autographs and pose for photos when asked, so he was still being his usual, affable self. But, he did start calling Leon "Nancy" on Saturday morning and told Merlin he really should take the time he devotes to tattooing himself and spend it eating a bloody sandwich. He also asked Gwaine if he wanted to borrow one of Sefa's hair ties (after he flipped his hair out of his face for the thousandth time) and called me "Princess" because I made the mistake of complaining when I got dirty. Leon, Merlin and I basically ignored him. Gwaine, on the other hand, responded by demonstrating an impressive and seemingly-endless knowledge of rude hand gestures.

So, yeah. Standard stuff.

Guinevere confessed she and Leon had talked about the camp as a bachelor weekend idea for me. But, since we wound up getting married in Bora Bora, I didn't get a bachelor weekend. So, they made it my birthday gift.

Getting married on our trip was Guinevere's idea. We were walking through the lobby and saw a sign on the concierge desk advertising wedding services. I had seen it earlier on the trip and hadn't given it much thought. I don't know if Guinevere had noticed it before, but it caught her eye _that_ day. She looked at me and said, "Let's do it."

"Do what?" I asked, surprised.

"Get married. While we're here." She had such an adorable grin, I couldn't refuse.

I didn't want to refuse.

"Today?" I asked, her grin now infecting my face. She saw my expression, threw her arms around my neck, and kissed me in the middle of the lobby.

"Yes," she said.

So, we got married in Bora Bora. She promised me she didn't care about having a big, fancy wedding. Said she wasn't one of those girls who dreamt of her wedding day all her life. "All those material details aren't the important parts of a wedding," she said. "The important part is you and I pledging our love to one another in the presence of God."

We were married by a nice man called Georges. Luckily, he spoke English, so I was able to keep up.

It was sunset. It was on the beach. We were barefoot. Guinevere had a flower in her hair and bare shoulders.

It was perfect.

The only person who had a problem with our spontaneous wedding was Father. I wondered why he was so interested. Perhaps he was looking forward to being in the society pages. Or something. Guinevere and I _had_ started making plans for the spring wedding, but fortunately, nothing irreversible or non-refundable had been done.

We had a party in January instead. Kind of a wedding reception, I guess. We agreed to let Father host it at his manor, so he was pleased. Merlin even did a little magic so Guinevere could have her lilacs. Morgana surprised everyone by showing up with some bloke called Alvarr. We were all shocked.

Then, in the middle of the party, we all found out Merlin and Freya had gotten married at the stroke of midnight on New Year's, with only Hunith and Mordred in attendance.

So, it's not just Guinevere and me who secretly got married. Merlin said he and Freya had been planning on doing it that way all along, so, if anything _we_ copied _them._ Even though our marriage ceremony took place a few days before theirs.

Leon and Gwaine are a completely different story. They're planning something for the summer. It's going to be an entire weekend of festivities out at Leon's parents' summer home. They were telling us about it during Fantasy Jousting Camp. It was actually pretty funny, hearing these two blokes talk all excitedly about their wedding plans. Especially considering we were in the middle of dinner. We may have gotten one or two strange looks because Gwaine got a little animated at times, but we didn't pay anyone any mind. There was one bloke who looked like he was going to make a comment, but as soon as he saw it was Gwaine talking, he turned around and went back to his meal.

That afternoon, Gwaine had knocked this particular gent on his arse pretty spectacularly.

It was a good weekend. Nice to get away with the lads. We all had a really great time and a lot of laughs, even if Merlin and I did miss our wives. Even if the food was mostly terrible.

But now, home to my Guinevere.

"Hello?" I call, closing the door behind me. Our dog, Pepper, trots excitedly up to greet me, her long tail wagging in a wide arc. "Hi, Baby Girl," I bend down and rub her ears while she sniffs my shins, trying to determine where I've been for the past two days.

She's a strange little mutt, Pepper. Even our vet, Sara (of course), wasn't able to ascertain exactly what breeds of which Pepper was a mixture. Her best guess was "some kind of terrier and some kind of hound. Maybe a few other things." She's a short dog with a long body, but surprisingly fast and spry. She already had her name when we adopted her, presumably because of her salt-and-pepper fur. Pepper is a great dog, and though we've only had her four months, it's hard to remember a time when she was not here with us.

"Arthur!" Guinevere exclaims, jumping up from the couch. She sets a large sketch pad on the coffee table and meets me halfway to the door. I straighten up, wrap my arms around her, and tuck my face into her neck. As always, she smells amazing. She smells like home.

I move my head and kiss her, taking several minutes to start making up for the two nights I was gone. I plan on continuing with this activity later. Well, not _too_ much later.

We haven't slept apart since she was in hospital with her appendix. That was Day 44. Well, I did sleep on her couch the next night, but we were in the same flat, so that's not "apart."

My point is two nights away from her is two nights too long.

"I missed you, too," she gasps when I finally release her lips. She grins up at me. "Put your bag in the bedroom and come tell me about it."

I drop my duffle on the bedroom floor. I can unpack it later. Hopefully, she waited to do laundry. I have a feeling my things probably stink.

"So, how was it?" she asks, sitting cross-legged on the couch. I flop down next to her, and Pepper leaps onto the couch beside me, curling up with her chin resting on my leg.

"It was bloody amazing, thank you, Love," I say, leaning over to kiss her again.

"I'm glad you had fun. Did you do well?"

I smile down at her. "Yes, I actually did! I mean, I've always been athletic, you know, but Coach said I seemed to have natural talent and, had I chosen to do so, could have been a pro like Percival."

"Really? That's amazing."

"Yeah, I had just taken my second or third go, and was heading back to the end of the queue, and he says, 'You know just where to put your lance, Pendragon.'"

"That's what she said," Gwen says, smirking at me.

I nearly fall over laughing. "I can't believe you just said that…"

"Why?"

" _Merlin_ said that exact thing, right after Coach's comment!"

She gapes at me. "Merlin? Doctor Merlin Emrys Merlin, the Renowned Surgeon and Dragonlord?"

"I _know_! It just popped out of his mouth, perfect timing, clear as day. Even Coach was laughing."

"You've corrupted him. You and Gwaine have taken that brilliant, gentle soul and have made him into a degenerate like the rest of you lot," Gwen chastises, but she's laughing.

"Nah, he was already a degenerate. We just encouraged it forward," I say. "And just me and Gwaine? Not Leon or Percival?"

"No. You and Gwaine."

She's right, of course. Though, she's never seen Leon when it's just us blokes. Percival behaves the same whether he's with us, his mum, or Sefa, so she's completely right about him. Well, maybe not Sefa. He'd better act differently with her.

I tell her as much as I can remember, but it all starts running together in my mind.

"I do have some pictures, but my phone needs to charge, so I'll show you those later," I finally say. "Maybe then I'll be able to make some sense out of things."

"You've been making sense, Love," she says, unfurling her legs now and moving onto my lap, gently nudging Pepper out of the way.

"Oh, you know who was _most_ surprising? Merlin. He was really good," I report, enfolding her in my arms.

"Really? Who would have thought he'd have a knack for jousting?" she asks, surprised.

"I think he was cheating," I say. Leon didn't agree with me on that. Gwaine openly accused him of it.

"Arthur, you know Merlin doesn't use his magic for those kinds of silly things," she says, shaking her head at me.

"That's what he _says,_ but no one is _that_ good on their first go. I'm just saying."

"Sometimes people have hidden talents," she says, shrugging. "On the other hand, maybe he wanted to impress you lads."

I laugh and kiss her cheek. "Maybe so. What were you working on?" I ask, pointing at the sketch pad.

"Landscaping ideas. I got a copy of the house plans," she says.

"Guinevere, we haven't even broken ground yet," I say, but cannot stop my smile. We found a parcel of land for sale in February. By mid-March, it was ours. I already had some ideas for our house sketched out, and so we were able to get a plan together rather quickly. Guinevere's been chomping at the bit to put in and maintain a garden. We'll be breaking ground in two weeks.

"I know. They're just ideas and will likely change before I actually get to _do_ anything next spring," she sighs.

"Well, whatever you decide will be wonderful," I say, kissing her again. "How was your dinner with Morgana?"

"It was nice. Fun. We watched a movie, too. She's happy, Arthur. Alvarr is very good for her. Sefa knows him and says his energy is very positive. That's what Morgana needs to balance her inherent darkness."

"Good," I nod. I kiss her again. I'm getting distracted by her proximity and my attention is shifting to other matters.

"Arthur..." she squirms as I move to kiss her jaw, working down to her neck.

"I missed you, Mrs. Pendragon," I mutter against her neck. "I think you need to welcome me home..."

"Arthur," she says, her voice firmer, "your face is all scratchy... have you not shaved since Friday?"

"Thursday," I say, lifting my head.

She reaches up to my face and rubs my stubbled cheeks. "You're all prickly."

Oh. Right. I wouldn't want to irritate her lovely skin. "I can shave," I say. "I'll go do it now." I move her from my lap.

As I quickly head to the bathroom, I hear her laughter behind me.

I wouldn't expect anything else.

I love my new life.

When I finish shaving, Guinevere is waiting for me in the bedroom.

Apparently, she did some shopping this weekend.

I trip over my trousers because I'm trying to walk and remove them at the same time.

She laughs at me again.

My wife. My love.

My Guinevere.


	74. Five Years and Seven Months Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

"Daddy!" I turn at the sound of my daughter's voice. It's my favorite part of the day: time to pick up Eve from day care. She's just turned four, and she's got me even more wrapped around her little finger than her mother has.

I crouch as she runs towards me with her arms out, leaping into mine. I kiss her round, soft cheek. Her teacher waves and I nod, standing with my daughter in my arms. She clings to my neck, wrapping her little legs around me and hanging on as I walk to the car.

"How was school?"

"Boring," she says, her voice muffled as she buries her face in my neck.

"Boring? Boring how?"

She lifts her head and fixes me in her serious blue stare. She has Guinevere's lovely almond-shaped eyes, but with my color. It's a unique and surprising contrast to her caramel-hued skin. Of course, to me, she's the most beautiful little girl in the world. Eve looks just like her mother. However, she could have green skin, yellow eyes, horns, and a tail and I'd still find her beautiful. She's part Guinevere, part me, and all her amazing self. "I'm not learning anything, Daddy. All the other kids don't even know how to _read_ yet."

"Don't you like the art projects?" I ask, taking her little hand and looking pointedly at her paint-stained fingertips. "I see you did some today."

"Yeah, but that's the only fun thing. Today, we talked about the letter E," she says in a tone that suggests she is well beyond discussing individual letters. Then, she actually rolls her eyes. I sigh. She's far too young to be doing that already.

I pause a moment outside the car as a strange sensation steals over me. I find myself wondering if the egg salad sandwich I had for lunch was off.

I place Eve in her seat and help her buckle herself in. "I'll talk to the teacher. Maybe she can find something more challenging for you, all right?"

She smiles and nods. "Like reading my own books while they do that dumb stuff? I would sit and be quiet and not bother anyone."

"Well, I don't know that I like you calling it 'dumb stuff,' but your idea sounds good," I respond.

"Sorry, Daddy. But, gluing googly eyes on a construction paper E is dumb." She crosses her arms in front of her chest.

I'm inclined to agree, but say nothing. She doesn't need any encouragement.

I climb into my seat and drive, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the music on the radio. My daughter completely sings the wrong words in the backseat, but I don't correct her. At a stoplight, I smile at her in the rear view mirror and she makes a silly face at me. I make one back at her and she giggles.

Wait. Something is familiar. I feel like I've been here before. Like I've had this conversation with Eve before.

But, how could that be? Eve is our firstborn. I certainly wouldn't talk about googly eyes with anyone else.

My eyes drift to the wedding ring on my hand. I spin it with my thumb, watching the pattern move as it glints in the sun.

"Green light, Daddy."

I shake my head slightly to clear it. "Thanks, Sweet Pea," I say, driving another block, then parking the car.

"Are we surprising Mummy?" she asks.

"Yes," I tell her, lifting her down. She takes my hand and we walk to the familiar storefront.

We walk in, and Guinevere's back is to us, her hair in a braid. She's talking to Sefa, oblivious to our presence. Drea sees us from her place behind the counter and waves. I lift my hand and put a finger to my lips.

"Go get Mum," I lean down and whisper, and Eve runs the short distance, tackling her mother from behind, throwing her arms around her hips.

"Oof! I hope that's my daughter!" Guinevere exclaims, twisting around to look down at her tiny assailant. A warm, loving smile spreads across her face and she reaches down to smooth her hand over Eve's unruly curls.

"Surprise, Mummy!"

"I like this surprise," Gwen says, stooping down to kiss and hug her little clone. "And you brought Daddy as well," she adds, smiling at me as she stands.

"I got done early," I explain, leaning over my child to kiss my wife.

"Mmm, I see that," she says. "How was the presentation?"

"Eh. I think it'll be fine," I shrug. "The council liked the idea for the senior living facility, so now we go to the next step."

"Good."

"Sefa, you look like you're going to pop," I say.

"I feel like I'm going to pop," she chuckles, running her hand over her huge pregnant belly. "Next week cannot come soon enough. Percival is jumping out of his skin," she chuckles.

"Really? I'd think he'd know the drill by now. It's not like this is your first," I say, laughing with her.

"Yes, but you know him," she says, sighing happily.

"Auntie Sefa, is he moving? Can I feel?" Eve asks.

"He's sleeping now, Love, sorry," Sefa says, smiling down at her.

"You're certain there's only one in there?" I ask, teasing her for the thousandth time.

"Quite. He's a big boy. But, of course, look at his father," she chuckles.

"True," I agree. "You ready to go?" I ask Gwen.

That strange feeling is getting stronger now. This is all so familiar. I feel like I'm living something I've already seen. Like I'm acting in a television show. It's beginning to unnerve me.

"I have my own car, you know," she says.

"Leave it. I'll drop you off tomorrow morning. I want to take my two favorite girls out for dinner," I say.

"Yay!" a small voice exclaims, and my legs are trapped in a tight hug.

"Mrs. Pendragon," I say, pulling her towards me, "is that agreeable to you?"

"Mmm-hmm," she hums, smiling. I hook my finger under her chin and kiss her again, lingering over her lips a moment.

A moment too long, apparently, because there are small hands tugging at my trousers.

"Daddy!" a tiny but insistent voice exclaims.

"Okay, okay," I say. "This one had better be a boy," I mutter, ghosting my hand over Guinevere's still-flat stomach as we walk out. "Goodnight, Sefa, goodnight Drea," I call. They wave.

"You love giving in to your women," Guinevere teases.

"I do," I admit, grinning. Honestly, I would be 100% on board with having another girl. I would be just fine living in a house full of women. Even our dog is female.

However, if we have a son, I will bloody well make sure he knows how to treat a woman. I'll give him the guidance and support I never received.

And my daughters will not only know how to conduct themselves as ladies, but also how they _should_ be treated by men.

She kisses me again, heedless of the tiny hand tugging me towards the car. "I love you, Arthur," she says.

"I love you, Guinevere," I answer, rubbing my nose against hers.

I secure Eve in her seat and slide behind the driver's seat.

Then, it hits me. I know why this is so familiar.

"Guinevere," I say, turning to her. "Remember my dream? That one I told you about a hundred years ago?" I ask.

"I seem to recall you had a few," she says. "Can you narrow it down a bit?"

I furrow my brows, trying to remember. "The... the first one. We hadn't been together very long."

"I think so," she says.

"The one with our daughter in it?" I prompt, the memories flooding back in a torrent. I start the car and she gasps. She must have remembered.

"Wait... You mean to tell me...?"

"Yeah," I say, still rattled by the experience. "I think it just happened. Picking up Eve. Coming to surprise you. Sefa talking about being huge. It was all in the dream."

"What dream, Daddy?" Eve pipes up, having heard her name.

"Daddy had a dream about you, Sweet Pea," I say. "It was a good one."

"Okay. I want to see Uncle Gwaine. Can we go to Rising Sun?"

Gwaine now owns the Rising Sun and has transformed it from a modest diner into one of the most popular restaurants in Camelot. He and Leon love Eve like she was their own, and she, of course, just eats up their attention.

I'm curious to see what will happen when she has to share them with a sibling.

"Yes, Love," Guinevere says. "So, your dream was a vision," she adds, softer now. Eve is obviously not old enough to learn all about my sordid past.

"I guess so," I answer. I shudder slightly. "It was a very strange feeling. I'm going to have to call Merlin later, I think. Maybe Morgana."

"If one of them doesn't call you first," she answers knowingly. I laugh. "So, at what point do you wake up?" she asks after a minute.

I steer the car into the parking lot of the Rising Sun and pull into a spot. I glance back at my beautiful daughter and look across at my beautiful wife. My Guinevere, with our second child growing inside of her.

I lean over and kiss her softly. "Hopefully, never."


End file.
